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.

Offensive

I once got in trouble in school for lashing out at someone who had said something derogatory about my mother. He wanted to fight me for the usual reasons boys fight and I suppose he thought he would provoke me with the kind of baseless slanders that boys will when looking for a reaction.

Not knowing then that words are only as powerful as the significance you allow them, I kicked out, catching him hard on the shin. So hard that I actually broke the skin and instead of a scrap taking place he hobbled off in pain. Unfortunately my actions had been viewed by a teacher and so I was sent to the Principals Office.

Brother Keegan, the headmaster, demanded an explanation for my actions. He knew I wasn’t a particularly aggressive child and wanted to know what had caused it. Not only was I not aggressive, I was incredibly timid and as such couldn’t bring myself to repeat what my antagonist had said about my sainted Mother. Instead, I lied.

“He called me a name sir.” My head was bowed to hide my lying eyes.

In his words, this was hardly an excuse to almost cripple a boy, (he was prone to exaggeration.) What could he have possibly called me that warranted such an attack? I wracked my brain to come up with something. I was too shy to curse in front of the head of the school so I went for something that I was occasionally called by my classmates but it never really bothered me.


“Hula Hoops, sir,” I said, still looking down.

At first he thought I was talking about the children’s toy and was confused why anybody would insult someone by calling them that. I explained that it was actually a slagging in relation to my name Holohan and that it was the crisps rather than the plaything.

“I’ve never heard of crisps being offensive,” he said

I wonder what if he’d still say that if he saw the Hunky Dory’s Rugby World Cup advertising campaign.

That might seem like a bit of a long set up for the punch line to a bad joke but I’m serious. The latest Hunky Dory’s bus shelter posters is without question one of the most offensive advertising campaigns ever. And I’m not even talking about its portrayal of women as objects of titillation and sexual entertainment. I can get past the fact that it flys in the face of any feminist who has ever stood up for herself and woman kind.

What bothers me is that it is so blatant in the fact that it has gone out of its way to be controversial and abhorrent. The marketing genius behind it wants you to be appalled. They want you to ring Joe Duffy to express your outrage. Oscar Wilde once said there is no such thing as bad publicity and in a world where this generations Ike Turner, Chris Brown, can have number one albums and Grammy nominations after pleading guilty to beating his girlfriend, he may have had a point.

The more people who complain about Hunky Dory’s the better because that means more people will recognise the name when they see it on the shelf of their supermarket and as more of us develop goldfish memories we forget the controversy and just remember the product name. You really have to wonder how much longer it is before we see this....

Hateration

This is going to be one of those that might make you think I’m a bit of a grump. It will give credence to those of you who suspect that my new bright and cheery ‘Lets love everything’ outlook might be a bit of a fraud.

That’s fair enough. Like other great artists, Van Gogh, John Kennedy Toole and Jade Goody to name a few, I’m probably destined to be unappreciated in my own time. Sometimes believing in something is more important than being popular.

In fact this might prove to be quite offensive to some of you because I know you were directly involved in some of the things I’m going to talk about. It doesn’t mean I don’t love you any less. I’m just pointing some things out that you might want to discuss on your next therapy session.

There has been a proliferation recently of world record attempts around Ireland. Ordinary people gathering so that they can get into the tome of ultimate achievement. The most Where’s Wally’s, Smurfs, Santa’s or Pirates in one place have all been organised recently, as has the World’s largest Rock the Boat display, and I have to ask. What’s the fucking point?

It used to be that in order to get in the Guinness book of World Records you had to be the best at something or the first to an achievement. Skill, perseverance, endurance and, to quote Roy Castle, dedication is what you needed to be a record breaker.

Nowadays you just have to pay 15 euro for an outfit, slip on your striped jumper and hope that there are enough people desperate enough for validation, that your gathering counts as a record. There usually are.

But I think it’s more than a craving to be part of achieving a milestone. I suspect it has something to do with a need to be part of something, anything. Facebook and social networking have proven that it’s easy to garner the approval of your friends by joining or liking the same things as they do (I know this because it’s something that might be levelled at me.) So by joining one of these fancy dress frolics, there is a chance that strangers will recognise exactly how cool you are.

Before you tell me that it’s all just a bit of harmless fun and I need to chill, I suggest you hold off on your dismissal because it may be about to turn into indignation. While I have issues with pointless gatherings of people in matching outfits of stupidity, I downright abhor another organised event of thousands of people looking ridiculous. And this one is for actually done for charity.

Movember,there aren’t enough synonyms in the thesaurus (and there are fifty one) to fully verbalise my rancour towards Movember. Men all over the World grow moustaches for the duration of the eleventh month of the year in order to raise money and awareness of men’s health issues. A very noble premise, but it is done in such an obnoxious ‘look at me’ kind of way that I can’t help but reject the goodness and only focus my rage on the irredeemable twatty-ness of it.

There is something achingly hip and knowing about it all. Everyone knows they look stupid, but it’s ok because lots of people look just as stupid. Its irony, Dude. Post modern handlebar moustaches are paraded proudly and I’m supposed to sponsor these moustachioed Thomas Magnum wannabes.

If you want to look stupid in order to fundraise I will get behind you and help as much as I can, if your intentions are solely altruistic. Grow a porn industry standard nasal caterpillar in July. Doing it November just seems like you are trying to be part of something ‘bigger.’

I did say this might not be my most popular piece. So I’m faced with two options. I rant about it on the internet as is my usual style, or I come up some kind of counter to this ridiculous period. On the first of November 2011 I, John Holohan am going to start “Movember makes you look like a dick.”

Wearing a badge that has the initiatives slogan on it, I will approach everyone I see who is grooming the offensive face fuzz and inform them that Movember makes them look like a dick. I will solicit sponsorship and all funds raised will go towards a men’s health charity.

So come on, if you hate Movember and hipsters with moustaches let’s hear from you. Together we can make November a real month of the year again. Of course we may end up getting punched in the face for insulting people.

Maybe we could attempt record for the most people in a room with black eyes.

Flummoxed

Sometimes things go awry, as is their wont, and you just want to shout at someone. Ranting and raving seems like the only logical solution to your problem. A perceived injustice has entered your world and calling someone an incapable, incontinent, ignoramus is the only way to right this wrong. You think it will help. It won’t

You can complain to the guy at the other end of the phone, who is probably on twelve euro an hour all you like. He is no more likely to solve your problem than if you explain it calm and rationally. I know, I used to be him.

I was going to call this week’s blog ‘Frustration’ and complain about how things can go wrong and all you want to do is scream at those responsible and how, essentially, it is ultimately pointless and futile . Then I realised the horrible irony of writing such a diatribe and posting it on the internet. Besides which I got over the thing that was bothering me.

Then I considered writing one called ‘Friends’ and talking about all the talented and interesting people I have the good fortune to know. Like Paul, who despite swanning off around South America like a Shoreditch Che Guevara and making me jealous of his globetrotting, is a good bloke and decent writer. He’s also pretty handy in the editing suite and helped make one couples magic moment even a little more special.

Or about Glen, a guy who I first met more than fifteen years ago (Shit, has it really been that long,) in the drama society in Waterford Regional Technical College as it was at the time. Fast forward to today and he is making a living as an actor/writer and has recently added director to his resume with this intriguing short.



Then I realised if just wrote about my friends work, it would just appear like I am advertising for others and that is not that’s not how we operate here at InsertWittyPopCultureReferenceHere. Its not how we roll.

So I’m kind of stuck. I’ve got some vague half ideas for posts but I nothing concrete. All I do know is that under the Alphabet guidelines that I have set myself is that the title needs to start with the letter F. No I really have no clue what to talk about.

Fuck!!!

Pseudonym

‘What’s in name? A weed by any other name is still a weed.’

I recently heard that quote from an animated flamingo called Featherstone. Ok, so it’s not ‘exactly’ Shakespeare but I think we can allow a cartoon about gnomes based on a tale of teenage suicide some wiggle room.

Any child or unemployed person with a Cineworld pass knows, I am of course talking about Gnomeo and Juliet the 3D movie based on The Bards opus. Having developed something of a thing for Emily Blunts plummy British accent I took myself along to see (hear) her voice the titular Juliet. Not expecting much from the movie it was quite enjoyable and it did give me a nice intro into this week’s piece.

I’m incredibly fussy about what people call me. My opinion on somebody is instantly affected depending on how they address me. They say you only get one chance to make a first impression. Why would you mess that up by calling me something that isn’t my name? Getting someone’s name right is a simple courtesy.

I once worked a job where it was customary to change the names of anyone who might have an unusual name, usually foreign nationals. It’s not as if they had particularly hard names to say in the first place. One of the managers decided that one Chinese workers name was too difficult to pronounce so that became Paul.

Of course if he’d been Irish on a British Building site he would have been called Paddy. Apparently that was different. That was racial. This was just convenient. I’m not sure how ‘Bo Heng’ felt about that. I know how I would have felt about it

Mine is a very simple and common name. It’s not hard to pronounce or remember. Yet the amount of times I am called something different is staggering. Why do people feel the need to add syllables to a four letter word when they address me? I’m not Johnner, Johnno, Johnser or JohnJoe. And I am certainly not Johnny.

I used to have a boss. He reminded me of a cliché spouting parody of a radio DJ. Like Alan Partridge or Tony Fenton with less charisma. Every day he would greet me as Johnny. It used to drive me nuts. His desk was behind mine so I would be typing (or more likely arsing on the internet) and I would hear his awful voice float over me. “Hey Johnny, have you got a second?” I would stop dead in my tracks. My fingers would claw up and my shoulders would tense.

The first couple of times I asked him nicely would he mind not calling me Johnny. No problem he said, he’d been in the army and all the Johns were Johnny so he just assumed I’d be the same. I smiled and moved on to whatever business we had. Then the next day he would call me Johnny again. Oops he forgot. I wouldn’t have minded so much if his name hadn’t been John as well.

It’s not that I’m against nicknames per se but let’s try and have some degree of originality. Hoops and Jayhaitch (or J.H. for those who haven’t figured that one out yet) are perfectly acceptable. Hoops is a derivative of a childhood nickname of Hula Hoops. I like Hoops though. It makes me sound ‘street.’

At least nicknames can be attributed to some sense of acquired familiarity. People who think they are close enough to you to have a pet name for you. This is understandable.
Strangers who refer to me as ‘Bud’ ‘Buddy’ ‘Pal’ or ‘Mate’, however, have no such luxury. It really makes me cringe when someone calls me one of these. I’m not your buddy. I don’t even know you.

This is especially annoying when it’s perpetrated by those cocky arseholes that are raising money for charities. You know the ones in the bibs with the clipboards. “Hey there buddy, have you got a minute to support the starving babies?” or “Alright mate, you want to give money to stop animal cruelty?”

I hate those guys. Their over familiarity is not endearing, it’s rude. Considering most of them are getting paid for it, if they want me to give them some of my money, they should act professionally. It sounds ridiculously old fashioned, but surely ‘Sir’ is appropriate when soliciting donations.

Oddly enough, I’m ok with being called ‘dude’ or ‘man’. It seems softer, less sarcastic. Maybe it’s because buddy and pal can be used in an aggressive manner. Dude just seems warmer. Perhaps it to do with the connection the words have with the hippy movement. More likely it’s to do with The Big Lebowski.

“...I’m the Dude. So that’s what you call me. You know, that or, uh, His Dudeness, or uh, Duder, or El Duderino if you’re not into the whole brevity thing”

Ok so maybe if the Dude isn’t going to get hung up on what he is called maybe I shouldn’t either. I suppose there are more important things to worry about in life. After all if ‘the Dude abides,’ maybe I should too.

Just don’t call me Johnny.

Fugue

Well, January has arrived. It has to be said, as months go; it has all the charm and wit of a gonorrheal goat with lustful intentions. As memories of the festive season fade I can’t help but feel that this calendar period is designed to bitch slap all those who got carried away with goodwill to all men and joy to the world. Smack!!! Don’t you ever forget you are part of the rat race and life sucks.

I know January blues are hardly the most original topics but I really thought it would be different for me this year. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t overspend at Christmas. I mean money is tight, but then it always is. I don’t have a mega credit card bill coming my way. That should be a relief, right?

January 2010 was a good one. I was making plans. I had projects and schemes ahead. I knew I was embarking on an exciting new time in my life. And so it proved. Last year was a productive one. Surely with the start of the New Year I should be feeling eager to carry on from my relative success as novice writer to becoming a partially recognised one.

Instead I’m unmotivated, listless, disorganised, anxious and just in a general funk (and not the cool Bootsy Collins kind.) When it comes to making the most basic decisions I’m bereft of any kind of definite opinion. I have taken to stopping dead in the street while I contemplate which foot I should use to take the next step.

These bouts of inertia can last up to five minutes. One such occurrence was, by pure chance, outside one of the ‘Adult Entertainment’ shops on Capel St. Such was my disorientation that I barely registered the strange glances I was getting from passing pensioners.

Coming off the back of two of the busiest months I have ever experienced I was looking forward to having five days off in a row last week. But having nothing to do meant I couldn’t relax. My brain was adamant that we should be completing some task or other. My body wasn’t so sure and when my mind couldn’t make convincing argument as to what exactly we should be busying ourselves with, my body won that debate.

I’m aware I sound like I am blaming January for my indecisive fugue. I am. The alternative, that it is of my own doing, just doesn’t float. I’m a positive, motivated person with a sparky nature…or I try to be. But it’s not happening at the moment and nothing has changed. Except the calendar.

Disposition

I don’t think I could ever be described as ray of sunshine, although some have tried albeit sarcastically. Over the years I have tended to voice my grievances with the world’s ineptitude and have never been shy about letting people now if I’m upset. Someone once said I could change the mood in a room. They didn’t mean it as a compliment.

People who have only got to know me in the last year or two may not have seen this side of me. I’ve been trying to be a much more positive person. I’m a veritable happy go lucky scamp compared to the pre therapy Jayhaitch.

Its not that things don’t annoy me anymore. They do. Equally if not more so. These days however, I try to let things slide. Look on the bright side.

I do this for a couple of reasons. Obviously the main reason is because all that anger isn’t good for you. Getting stressed by (in a lot of cases, little) things is not good for the mental well being.

When people talk about a metaphysical weight off their shoulders this is what they are talking about. Getting wound up and holding on to pet peeves manifests itself as tension in the neck and shoulders. Let that shit go.

The second reason I’m less inclined to rant is that, in the end, nobody took them (or me) seriously. The first time I went off on a bit of a tirade, people may have been shocked. The second, they might have been taken aback. The third, they nodded knowingly. The tenth, amusement. By the time I got around to my twentieth they were downright ambivalent. Nobody wants that

I’m angry dammit, listen to me, cower at my outrage.

I was as effective as Mr. Furious in Mystery Men. So these days, I count to ten, hold my breath, bite my tongue, turn the other cheek and walk away. I’m also probably a little more considerate of other people’s feelings so I tend to keep in check my disgust if I think it might offend someone.

It wasn’t easy at first. Everything still bothered me. Not rising to people’s consistent idiocy was extremely trying. It was as if the world knew I was trying to self improve and it wanted me to test me. Push me to the limits. Sometimes I would rise to the bait, take a bite out of juicy worm of stupidity.

But as I worked on my smile and nod technique it got easier. My episodes became more sporadic. I developed a certain understanding. I practiced patience. I was down right calm. I have to say it feels good.

People have noticed this change and think it’s for the better. I know at least one person who gets annoyed by my being positive while she chooses to bitch and moan about everything. Some might even suggest if it came to a Zen-off I could probably give the Dali Lama a run for his money…as long as David Bowie was the judge and not Richard Gere.

They would be wrong. I still get pissed off, a lot. I can forgive them for getting it wrong though. I think I thought I didn’t get bothered by stuff any more. I do. I just choose not to voice it. I realised this last week I found myself getting aggravated by a couple on the bus.

It was 8.20 in the morning, the earliest I had be up in at least 6 months. It was raining. The battery on my MP3 player died half way through ‘This Is Where It Gets Good‘ by Eels and I was on my way to Fighting Words. I was going to take the lead with a group of twenty-five 9 year olds for the first time. I was quite nervous and trying to shut the world out.

Then two stops after I got on the bus I was joined by a pair of simpletons who were about to make my morning worse.

In what I imagined was the first flush of a budding romance, holding hands as they came up the stairs. He took the lead looking around for a seat for them both. The bus was about five eights full so there were plenty of seats available; however there was only one seat for two free.

They were both in their mid to late 20’s. He had that really fine strawberry blonde hair that makes it hard to tell if he is actually going bald. His cheeks were red as if in a permanent blush. If you can imagine Niles from Frazier had eaten too many Tayto sandwiches your pretty close.

She was wearing the world’s least sexy outfit of jeans and a GAA jersey, probably his. I think it was a club jersey but I really couldn’t say.

They sat down in front of me, he offered her the window seat but she declined so he sat on the inside. She sat beside her man. Snuggling into him, she rests her head on his shoulder. He put his arm around her along the back of the seat, his elbow dangling over onto my side.

This is where I began to get irked. That was my space. He was invading my personal bubble. I paid one Euro sixty for this journey I want the air at least till the distance of the seat in front of me and here was this interloper trying to deny me.

Eventually he moved it. My tension abated briefly. Very briefly. They then began what can only be described as snogging. The kind of kissing 14 year olds do outside the local ice rink or bowling alley. Kissing for kissing sake. Kissing because they were boyfriend and girlfriend. The kind of kissing that makes me sick.

I have no real issue with (moderate) displays of public affection as such. But it was too early in the morning for that shit. They seemed to be on there way to work so it’s not as if the kissing was going to lead anywhere. And before anyone (female) says just because you kiss doesn’t mean you are going to have sex here is a news flash. Yes it does. We only do the kissing ladies, because we want the sex…if not immediately, later. We can play the long game.

In the past I would have coughed in a very unsubtle manner and told them to get a room. This time I didn’t. I went into my tongue biting routine but I was really aware that they were annoying me. I counted to ten. The anger built. I tried to think happy thoughts but they two slurping morons in front of me were very off putting.

Just as I was about to explode and slap them both in the back of the head they had a lucky escape. She stood up and said ‘This is my stop, I love you and can’t wait to see you later’ and kissed him goodbye. And that was it. My rage subsided and once the taste of sick at her parting comment left my mouth it was all good again.

As I finished my journey I was very aware of how much they annoyed me. And I was very aware how I had been appearing to not get annoyed. Little things like that didn’t bother me anymore did they? I guess they do. I decided that this re discovery needed some analysis. I was going to keep a record of all the little things that annoyed me for a week.

I didn’t have long to wait till I found items number two and 3 on the list. After my session in Fighting Words I went to the cinema. It’s a usual Tuesday afternoon thing for me to do. I was sitting waiting for Scott Pilgrim to start (still very enjoyable on second viewing) and the adverts had yet to begin even.

Cineworld at this stage normally pipes in movie related music over the P.A. The boss must have been off on this day and a member of staff hijacked the music system and decided we all needed to hear the new album by Diana Vickers.

For those of you lucky enough not to know who Ms. Vickers is, she is a reject from X factor. She sings with such an effected voice that she sounds like a cross between Kate Bush having an orgasm and Delores O Riordan from the Cranberries having an asthma attack. She has ‘distanced’ herself from her Xfactor days in an attempt to be taken ‘seriously’ as an ‘artist.’ One of her ‘lyrics’ is about how she hates ‘rich kids’ who shop in ‘charity’ shops.

How many sarcastic inverted commas is that? You get my point.

Number 3 on the list was the trailer for the movie Vampires Suck. A ‘comedy’ lampoon (ok, no more ironic ‘air fingers‘) of the Twilight. Bereft of any artistic merit, a cheap cash in on the movie franchise that already has no soul. It happens to have been hugely successful in the United States despite terrible reviews and coming from the same stable as Another Teen Movie, Scary Movie, Meet the Spartans and others of its ilk How could anyone not be annoyed?

I was going to put the guy behind who laughed at the trailer for this abomination of cinema on the list but when the movie was over and the lights came on I saw he was a man in his 40’s dressed in the full Liverpool away kit, socks and all. So I’ll let that slide.

The rest of the list was made up in part of the following things-

• Last minute cancellations
• 
  
• People not leaving a voice message (especially when they ring from a private number)
• 
  
• Bertie Ahern in that stupid ad. (Just Bertie Ahern in fairness)
• 
  
• Wanting to put something on my list but then realising I’m blowing things out of proportion
• 
  
• Passive Aggressive Behaviour. (You can slam as many things as you like but I won’t know what’s upsetting you unless you tell me.)
• 
  
• Losing the other stuff on my list of annoyance because I was recording them on my phone and I lost my phone.
• 
  
• Losing my phone.

So as you can see. I am still prone to the bout of vitriol. I think that’s natural though. It isn’t natural to keep it all in. Get annoyed, let it out and let it go. I will still try and keep a positive spin on things but occasionally I will think about the things that annoy me and try and let them out.

If only I had some sort of public forum where I could do that without shouting at people.