SWEARING: Fun For All The Family

WARNING: VERY, VERY SWEARY 
and not very grown-up

Emergency Exit: HERE

I've probably covered this before. Fuck it.

If you hadn't guessed, I really like swearing. I love to swear. Unlike many, many people who do it a lot, I'm very good at it. Just the other evening, in fact, a young man complimented me on my ability to deliver the word 'C**t'¹ with the necessary verve to do it well². I thank you, young man. And, speaking of small boys, my pre-teen son pointed out to me yesterday that I had taught him all the swearwords he knows³. This is true. He also pointed out that I had done so at bedtime, usually after we’d finished reading the daily portion of Narnia.

Fun and Educational

Well? What better way to learn them? We sit together giggling like fools and rolling lovely short vowels around in our mouths. Short vowels; chopped consonants. There is poetry in swearing, and therein lies its pleasure. Ok, he has heard me say them in anger, and I regret that; he chastises me for it. But he fully understands the difference between a well-placed profanity for humorous effect, and a diatribe of obscenities spouting from pure ignorance. Fuck me, the lad’s a sharp one⁴.

Here comes the point: there is poetry in swearing, and that is why it is pleasing to the ear. Here are some examples of my reasoning (I should point out at this stage, I feel, that I have conducted no research into my theories; I have consulted no Learned Linguists, nor have I pored over peer-reviewed papers; I haven’t even typed ‘nob’ into Wiki or Google. ’Sjust wot I fink. So there. I’m the fucking Pope):

SOMETIMES ONLY A SHORT VOWEL WILL DO. We know that Fuck, Piss, and Shit have their origins in Anglo-Saxon times. I don’t know if Anglo-Saxons shouted those words when they hit their thumbs with hammers, but the native tongue seems to require a short, punchy sound when such a thing happens. So knock yourself out. Latin and French aren’t going to do the job. And besides, ‘C**t’ was good enough for Chaucer.

Fun and Educational

POETRY PLEASE “Assonance means getting the rhyme wrong.”⁵ No, but ‘swan’ and ‘stone’ is a bad example. Assonance (the rhyming of the vowels but not the consonants) is immensely pleasing to the ear. I’d give you some other examples, but I can’t be arsed to come up with any – it’s late. But so often the rhyming vowels, the echoed syllable, form part of the pleasure in saying words like ‘motherfucker’; ‘bellend’; and ‘bollocks’ – which is particularly lovely as one’s tongue has to roll round that delightfully onomatopoeic -ollo- combination in the middle. It even resembles the male genitalia when written down. It’s an absolute gift.

Furthermore, the proof of this theory lies in the propensity for creative compound swearing. Admittedly we have moved on from the tame and tabloidesque ‘studmuffin’, but who hasn’t laughed immoderately when a much-esteemed social media acquaintance accuses one of ‘cockwombling fuckmuffery’? The little scamps.

Poop-chute. Bunglec**t. Jizz-Wizard. Fucktrumpet. Not very grown-up; don’t care. 

SEXIST? MOI? There are numerous objections to the use of references to the female genitalia in pejorative terms. Again, that’s not an argument I wish to go into. However, whilst no-one is in doubt of one’s meaning when one refers to another as a ‘twat’, one may be equally sure that, had one said ‘prick’, ‘dickhead’, ‘cock’ or ‘nobstick’, no compliment was intended either. 

Nobstick. See, that’s funny.

Fun and Educational

I FUCKING LOVE FOOTNOTES

¹ There is no hypocrisy in the asterisks. 'C**t' tops the official Ofcom list of words found offensive by the British public⁶, and though I use it, I don't do so on stage or social media. I don't intend to cause offence, believe it or not. I know where to draw the line. Sort of

² ‘Pussy’ is another one. Very few can say that word at all. They’re so afraid of it that it comes out as ‘Pissy’. For fuck’s sake, People. If you’re that afraid of it, don’t even try

³ Within reason. I’m a Lady. He’s got plenty more to learn yet

⁴ He has never, ever sworn in anger, in my hearing. What he says with his peers is his business. He keeps it out of the house

⁵ Frank, in ‘Educating Rita’, by Willy Russell

⁶ Now, that is actual research. I downloaded the .pdf and everything

IT'S BEGINNING TO LOOK A LOT LIKE HOGSWATCH

This year was my third Hogswatch, and my second as the hostess of the Pink Pussycat Cabaret Club. 

If none of that means anything to you, be a love and pop over to Google for an explanation, because once again it's after midnight and I should be in bed. 


The bit that Google may not make immediately clear is the abundance is warmth and love that, each year, wraps itself round the small town in Somerset where Ankh-Morpork has found its twin.

I drove there on Saturday morning through blazing sunshine, drinking in gold all the way, thinking to myself, I'm going home. I'm going to my Family. That's how we all feel. Enjoy the few pictures I've scattered though here; they barely touch the surface though, really.

I tried to get a few Hogswatch selfies, which was fun, and there were lots of new faces too - 'Hogswatch Virgins'. Well: Virgins no more - or, as dear Douglas Adams would have had it, maybe rather flushed and sticky Virgins.

As you know from a previous blog, I made a couple of donations to the annual auction in aid of RICE (Research Institute for Care for the Elderly). 
These were a necklace I assembled myself from a mysterious marble found in my bed; and the beautiful artwork print of my f**k-off fantastic tattoo.

In addition, I donated an envelope of fifteen or so Haiku that I had written for the occasion.
Here's the bit that floored me. The Haiku? A handful of moderately pornographic verses, and a dozen or so tributes to our DW friends? Sold for £55.
The necklace? Which, actually, was rather lovely? Sold for £55. Maybe if I'd mentioned that I had slept in it, it might have fetched more...
And the print? One of only three, and the only one available to buy? Sold for £160.

I am humbled.
Where else to take you? How can I, in a few words and pictures, do justice to the Hogswatch Talent Show; the visit from the Hogfather; the fabulous cake competition; the games, lectures and quizzes; the aerial hooping display; the Magnificent Makers' Market; the Sausage Supper or, indeed, The Cabaret show itself?

Of course, I can't. Not really. You had to be there. You really do have to be there. It's like nothing else, and I love it. 
One other thing: Davina challenged me in the afternoon to write a poem based on things shouted out by the audience on the Saturday afternoon.

Things that sprang to mind when they thought of Hogswatch. Sausage! they shouted. Corsets! said someone. Drink! said pretty much everybody. Off you go, Mu. 
I had about an hour, by the time I'd got back to the hotel and changed my costume ready for the evening. This is it, as promised. I don't know if it has a title yet; I'm still waiting for it to tell me. But it's a cautionary tale, of a sort, such as befits the season. Sort of.


This is the tale of Felicity Vaine
Whose tastes for the high life were such
That she only drank of the finest Champagne
And dined upon truffles – so much

That her father despaired of her, so he said “Flair,
Your habits are costly and fine
Your disdain for the ordinary makes me despair!
In fact, I’ve decided it’s time

That you learnt a new lesson in life! Yes, indeed!
Simple pleasures, you know. Now I’ve talked
To your Mother about it, and she is agreed
We’re sending you to Ankh-Morpork!”

“But Daddy!” sobbed Flick, “But it’s Hogswatch, you Fiend!
And I’ve heard the place smells like a drain!”
“That’s as may be, young lady, but you’re not the Queen
And you’re drinking me dry of Champagne  –

So don’t argue, your bags are all packed, off you go
The train’s got a good head of steam
And when you come back, let’s hope that you know
Life is not just a big bowl of cream!”

Poor Fliss – she wasn’t cut out for that life
Though she wasn’t without common sense;
She bought a corset and a long silver knife
And she took up a new residence

At a boarding house owned by one Madam Palm
(Whose daughters were residents, too)
Felicity reasoned with no hint of alarm,
“I’m a well classy bird through and through

I could toil at housemaiding, earning my bread
On my knees, until they are sore;
But the manner to which im accustomed,” she said,
“I need money – so I’ll be a Whore!”

She made a glittering start, being young, fresh and pert
(Though glitter’s a rookie mistake
She soon learnt not to sprinkle it under her skirts
Because after a while, it chafes)

Her clients were noble and wealthy young men
Fliss Vaine was the toast of all Ankh
Oh yes, the toffs wanted a piece of her then
They all love an upper-class yank

But life has a why of handing out fates
And Felicity Vaine’s heart was won
By an unlikely squire who held out a plate:
“How about this – inna bun?”

Well – she looked, and she looked, and her violet eyes
Took him in from his boots to his smock;
And her breath came in fast and her eyes opened wide
As she noticed the size of his – sausage

So Felicity lost most of her dainty ways
And fell from her pedestal high
She couldn’t resist Dibbler’s sausage, no, nay,
Nor his rock-solid thighs. – I mean pies.

© Muriel Lavender
Hogswatch 2014

Well - they asked for it.

So... Thanks to Bernard, Reb, Ian, Boggis and all the organising crew who make it happen. 

Thanks to Davina, Alison, Mari, my DW Mummy Ulisa, Pat Harkin, The Bear Inn, everyone who looks after me like the over-fluffed Diva I am.

Thanks to Kev, George, Pam, Rob, Nige, Jan, Vicky, Steve, Robin, Phil, Cohen, Matthew, Alex, Renta, Ana, AJ, Haddock, Harry, Darren, Carrot, David, Stew, Pixie, Ellie, Erik, Renta, Eli, Jacob, Aine,

Angelina, Adele, Ras, Krystel, Adora (much missed), Dibbler (remembered in rhyme), Igorina, Kirstine, Vanessa, Ian, Pam, Dr Hix, Grundy, Amy, Richard, Nina, Chris, Mandy,

Granny W, and all the endless people I can't name because it's now half past midnight and I still have laundry to deal with. But I love you. All of you. 

Thank you, Hat. Thank you, Terry. For everything.

I’ve Entered The ‘Niche Years’ Now. Boy, Are You In Trouble

TODAY IS MY BIRTHDAY.  
But you all know that – I’ve dropped enough hints.

A cake. I made it.

I will be busy enjoying Champagne and good company tomorrow night, so naturally I will be far too busy to publish a birthday blog. That will have to wait,because I shall be straight off to host a Burns’ Night Charity Fundraiser on Saturday, then home for tea and cake with my gorgeous girl-friends on Sunday.

I’ve had so much to share with you, and yet my blog posts are pitifully few… though neither are my readers’ numbers multitudinous – I’ve checked my stats and it took a lovely big painting of a lady’s lady-parts to boost my views to 500 in a day! Pffft. You people, you’re terrible. Here are some highlights, then, of the last year…

DID I MENTION THAT I AM MISS JANUARY? Well, I am. I came in with the most votes in the photo competition, and there I am, all over it (and all over some of my gentleman-friends too, apparently, the dirty buggers).  

   

Some of your walls are graced by the Whiskerinas’ Calendar this year, and you get me all month – my birthday month. Lucky you.  I thought I’d share the email I sent to lovely Jodi, who organised the Calendar Contest and has done so much to support the Give The Kids The World Foundation. Here it is:
“ Jodi, I'm sorry to 'spill' on you but there's something I'd like to share with you. I got the news about the Calendar this morning, I went about my business, I dropped my children at their schools; then I cried all the way to work. As you know, it's my birthday in January: I shall be 40. Three years ago I couldn't bear to look at myself in a mirror. Five years ago I sort of hoped I might get hit by a truck as it would take a lot of complicated decisions out of my hands. Then I began creative writing. Then Poetry. Then performance. Then Burlesque. Then Bearding. It's been quite a journey, and it's not over. But I wanted to give you an idea of what it represents, for me, to be 'Miss January', during the month of my 40th birthday, after what I went through. It's a big fucking deal, is what I'm trying to say, and - well, thank you. Beard On, Sister! Love, Mu”

That's not my bottom. For a change

That’s all. So if this all seems a bit ‘Me-Me-Me’, and if you’re getting a teensy bit bored of me posting pictures of my arse all over the place, do you know what? I give no fucks about that. I’m enjoying being me, and I’m loving being 40. I’ve entered the ‘Niche Years’ now, Baby, and it’s taken me this long to begin to work out who I am. Thank you to all the incredible, inspirational, beautiful, crazy people who’ve shared this journey so far. Ooh – tearing up. Stop it. Here are some photos.

Written by a young person with Autism, after I visited his school for a poetry workshop on National Poetry Day

Treasured moment with FergalMcElherron at Shakespeare's Globe last summer

Deadly Is The Female, 5th Birthday celebration

This should happen to every girl at least once

Chatting with Sir Terry - what a privilege

Me and the dear Professor, way back in, ooh, 2238 A.D.

Something I invented this year

My most popular post - with almost 6000 shares!

The darling Wife

Some of my less rude cakes. You should have seen the others

Ah, Captain. Such adventures!

WORLD Champion (Silver). Stuttgart. I know.

Happy times with truly wonderful people

*I’ll tell you something else, too. For the first time in fifteen years, I own a full-length mirror – bought it last week. Perhaps, this year – just perhaps – I’ll even take it out of its wrapping.