Tag Archives: swearing

Twenty Swear Words

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Here we go, here we go, here we go. World Cup fever officially starts tomorrow and there’s cheap white car flags, Adrian Chiles and bad haircuts everywhere.  Yesterday, I saw a small child with the word ‘Gerrard’ shaved into the back of his head. Oh dear, oh dear.

I’m not a fan of football.  It’s a bit woosy for me.  It’s all the excessive buffing, the chest waxing, the hair products, the mano-a-mano contact at every given opportunity, the tears, the faking, the communal baths, the socks. It’s not attractive to us girls.

And it’s a mug’s game being a supporter.  Let’s face it, poor old England don’t stand a chance of winning and yet we’re marching over the trenches, walking blindly into a summer of collective mass depression and damaged self esteem.  Tragic really.

Nelson Mandela can croak on all he likes about the beautiful game bringing together nations, but we all know it’s personal.  It’s going to be like Eurovision all over again where we lost – spectacularly – because everyone in Europe hates us.  Why wouldn’t they?  We’ve been turning our nose up at their party now for years.  They couldn’t wait for a chance to snub us publicly.

And the same goes for the Americans.  With BP pumping out the horrific oil slick onto America’s prime coastline, we’re literally dumping on their doorstep.  Do you really think we’ll have a hope in hell of winning on Saturday against a side so pissed off?

And it’ll be oh-so-easy for them.  All the yanks have to do is wind up Rooney a little bit and he’ll be off.  The Anglo Saxon within will rear up and he’ll be hoisted by his own petard.

Oh yes, Fifa’s list of banned expletives is a genius move to thwart us, especially since we invented swearing.  Everyone knows that kicking a ball and bad-mouthing are hot-wired together into the very DNA of every footballer in the land. I’d love to know the total on Capello’s swear box by now.  You could probably buy a small island with it.

But twenty words, eh?  I’m intrigued. I’m an accomplished swearer, but I’m struggling with twenty.  Imagine the meeting of the officials to decide on the definitive list?  These are grown men.  It’s got to be the silliest meeting in history.

But the secret list has been issued.  So clearly there’s the F word and the D word – multiply by two when you add Head to them both.  So that’s four. Then there’s obviously the C word and the Mother one.  They’re up there, right?  Then there’s S H one T and the one that rhymes with Banker.

But what else?  Pillock?  Wassock?  Twonk?

You’ve got to wonder.

Roll on Wimbledon.  Bring on the hairy chests and racket throwing.

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Gordon Brown Nuissance Caller

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Is it just me, or has the level of road rage gone up?  And rage in general?  I entirely blame the Government, but more on that in a moment.

The other weekend we were in London with our pals. We’d snuck out for Saturday lunchtime lemonades at The PV (the Princess Victoria, my fave West London pub) with all the kids – six in all between us.  About an hour later, after all the crayons had been scattered liberally over the floor, the WOO had closed (that’s Window Of Opportunity in Rees speak), but we’d all had a lovely time.  In a jovial mood we headed back out of the cosy pub to cross the Uxbridge Road.

The traffic was heavy.  Bumper to bumper.  Lots of empty buses.  The usual London glue.  We waited at the lights and duly crossed at the green man.  But it started flashing as we were only half-way across the road, at the same time as the amber light started flashing for the drivers.

A man in a red car, keen to get going, started hooting us, then wound down his window.  “Get out of the way you F*******   C***!” he screamed at me.

I put up my hand and asked him to wait.  The Little One had fallen off her scooter on the  way across road.  The man honked his horn more persistently and screamed more abuse, revving the car, threatening to run us down. By the time we’d hurried all the kids across to the far pavement, most of them were crying.

Of course being in heavy traffic, the driver had only managed to get twenty yards down the road.  My noble husband morphed into a gorilla and gave chase and pounded on driver’s car window, demanding to know why he thought he had the right to swear at me and the kids.  The man denied it, terrified now that he was hemmed in by buses and a very angry Mr Rees.  The woman sitting next to him implored Emlyn not to wake up their baby in the back!  The cheek of it.

I was shaken and cross, but gratified that Emlyn had called the bloke on his unreasonable behaviour.  He won’t be doing that again in a hurry, I hope.

But let’s face it, I’m no saint myself.  I’m aware that the problem of too many cars makes us all see red.   More often than not I’m raging against the system as soon as I can’t park.

And now, to add to my frustration, I’m now being pestered by a nuisance caller.  Guess who?  Yep, none other than Gordon Brown.

I’m receiving recorded announcement messages up to ten times a day.  A man, who sounds like he’s selling carpets informs me that I might qualify for a ‘Debt Relief Order’, a government initiative set up to help people ‘affected by the recent recession’ to eliminate 100 per cent of their debts within six months.  I might qualify, he tells me.

Except that I won’t.  Because I pay my mortgage and my credit cards off and spend within my means.  I never take the kids shopping and let them have what they want, and although I’ve had several dreamy crushes on new sofas, have never got actually bought one on credit.

So I’m outraged at these calls.  What makes me swear obscenities at this recording, is not the sheer numbers of these irritating calls, or my inability to track down the perpetrator, or my lack of knowledge as to whether it’s phoney or not, but the fact that the Government seems to be saying that it’s fine not to take responsibility for our financial actions, whether you’re a big bank, or a normal punter.

And whose paying for this scheme and all these calls?  Why, moi, of course.  Grrrrr.

The middle one picked up the phone earlier and as soon as she heard the ‘This is an important announcement.  Do not hang up,’ message, she said, “Shut up and go away, Gordon Brown, otherwise my Mummy will call you a tw*t again.”

Quite right.

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