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.

Spanish Fly

Doing this kind of thing isn’t always easy you know. Inspiration doesn’t grow on trees sadly. Constantly trying to come up with clever and witty ideas that are not only entertaining but also suit my (some might say limited) style is not something that comes naturally.

Ideas are like constipation. You know there is one there, waiting to come out but its not always easiest to get it out of you. The more you push it…the harder it seems. And just like constipation as long as its stuck in there, life is a pain and you never ever to properly relax.

If you ask any doctor what’s the best way to deal with these things, they might advise that prevention is better than the cure. Eat plenty of fibre and make sure you don’t eat too much junk food. Well this writing lark is kind of the same.

I try to hang out with inspiring people (they being the metaphorical fibre) and I try not to watch too much rubbish on TV (the junk food). I’ve spoken before about how T.V. can rot your brain and is at least partially responsible for the increase in the amount of stupid fuckmonkeys you see walk the streets these days. So I won’t dwell on the negative.

I’m very lucky person in that my friends are, almost to a man, intelligent, erudite and funny people. Everyone of them possesses a sense of humour that marks them out as special. I draw a lot from their friendships. And when I say draw I sometimes mean outright steal…but they love me so they forgive me.

I could write an article on each one of them and how they are an important part of my life and how they give me cause to celebrate knowing them. But I won’t. A little of that is because I’m incredibly lazy. Part of that is because some of them have enormous egos and I’m not about to feed that. (You know who you are, you big headed bastard.)

This last week I have been incredibly fortunate to have made a lot of new friends. I went on my second Pueblo Ingles programme. Pueblo Ingles is an English language immersion programme for Spaniards to improve their grasp on everyday use of the old Queens English.

It is kind of a cross between Big Brother and that episode of The Simpsons where Bart goes to France as an exchange student. Taken from their homes and families and transplanted into a village in the middle of nowhere 21 Spanish Nationals (and Juan, who was from Chile) where surrounded by 22 native English speakers, talking complete nonsense in a variety of accents and speeds.

Intimidating and scary is probably putting it mildly. How would you feel if you in a situation where you felt like you would spend a week not understanding a word that anyone said to you. Imagine you had to communicate with strangers for 13 hours a day and not being unsure if anything you say makes sense.

This is Pueblo Ingles.

My role there was to spend my waking hours chatting to Spanish people. Get them used to my accent (tirty tree not thirty three) and my way of talking. Even though it was my second programme I was still a little nervous. It was one thing if I could make them understand my Jimmy Rabbite accent I still had to manage to be entertaining and interesting from 9 in the morning till at least 11 at night or as happened on more that one occasion 6 the following morning.

What if they didn’t get my sense of humour? What if they sensed I was bit of charlatan? ‘You call yourself a writer? And yet you have published nothing’ they might say. What if they just thought I was really boring? The last time I did the programme I was very lucky that the group of people I was with where all lovely people. Surely the law of averages dictates that this group was going to be full of assholes?

Not at all. I’m so happy to report that this group was just as nice as the first. Everyone was open and honest. Prepared to talk about anything as long as you were willing to listen and able to understand. I love Spanish people. They are so genuine that it took a while for someone as cynical as me to believe it was true. They are warm people, friendly and very comfortable with themselves. They think nothing of giving you a reassuring pat on the shoulder, just because you are standing there.

In the last week, people who I did not know two weeks ago, told me stuff about their families, their jobs, life ambitions, hobbies, losses and fears. We spoke as if we had been friends for years. In return I tried to return the openness and was always as honest as possible.

Bonds of friendships were forged over the course of the week. Many bottles of rioja (I’m actually gone a bit off red wine at the moment,) cerveza and Cuba libre where shared. Stories and anecdotes from each of our lives told. Group activities and theatre showed everyone was open and up for a laugh.

All of these united us but nothing as strongly as the beauty of the English Language in the form of swear words. We imparted all the knowledge we could in relation to abusing and insulting other people, how to deal with stressful situations, shouting at a soccer referee and how to tell a lady you enjoyed her appearance, (Nice Funbags.)

Yes, I know swearing isn’t big or clever, but it can be very funny…kind of like me.

By the end of the week I felt I had made some real friends with people who I wouldn’t normally get an opportunity to meet. High level business men with intense jobs, Spanish Senoritas who are ‘so lovely’, New Zealand grannies and two English People who reminded me so much the friends who I have had since I went to college 15 years ago, that I had to check that I hadn’t gone and sat in some kind Delorean or Hot Tub Time Machine.

One of these English people pointed out something on Saturday as we were having a stroll around the Reterio in Madrid. On Friday night when the course was over and Spanish people no longer ‘had’ to speak to each other in English and could go back to their mother tongue, they didn’t. They continued to speak to us in a English. Not because they had to, but because they wanted to talk to us. Their friends.

I would also like to mention two Spanish ladies from my last Pueblo Ingles programme who came in to meet me when I was in Madrid. The beautiful Mayte who works long days (well when she is on time) and then comes in to see a ‘giddy’ like me and the lovely Inma who on her day off drove me to see the medieval town of Toledo. Thank you both very much even if Inma’s driving was a little scary. I’m joking of course. (not really)

I learned a lot this week. Some very handy Spanish swear words. That putting on a pink straw hat does not look good on me. That just because you’re a self conscious Irishman you can still just reach out and put your arm around someone and be friendly (probably not in Ireland though). Mostly I (re)learned that being with Spanish people is a great way to spend your time.