SAW IT. THOUGHT OF YOU: A Cornucopia of Delightfully Entertaining Complete Bollocks

Hello, You! Yes, You! Long time no blog: I've missed you, you know. No, that's the wrong way round, isn't it? It is you who should have been missing me, being as this is my blog and all. But then, you haven't clamoured for your occasional dose of Mu-Nonsense, so I conclude that my first statement was correct. It is I who have missed you. Commence talking bollocks...

because you know I love Science and shit

A few things have happened that have made me want to bite on spoons again, but there's no need to dwell on those. If I were to write a blog on Why Fifty Shades In Any Of Its Forms Is A Pile Of Fucking Old Wank*, well, I may as well write a blog on Why Hurting Kittens Is Mean. 
I had a birthday; birthdays are not my favourite, but some of you did give me very lovely presents. Thanks ever so much! You are far more generous than I deserve.

because you know I love Octopuses and crazy undies

But no. Instead of spoon-chewing, or birthday gifts, I'm going to share a collection of pictures and clips that you've been sharing with me, in those saw-it-thought-of-you moments. You do know me: lately it's been Chemistry; Bosoms; Grammar; Fancy Shoes; Swearing; Filth; and Octopuses. Sometimes you tell me that I've been in one of your dreams! I LOVE that! And they've all been really cool dreams too, making me quite envious that I wasn't actually there... there was the holding-hands-on-the-bus one; and the carrying-my-luggage-in-LA one; and the drinking-tea-with-Russell-Brand one (no-one's hinted at anything too filthy. That's probably a good thing. But, you know, if it ever happens, keep it to yourself, there's a love. And besides, I'd feel sorry for you). 

because you know I love a bit of Filth

Whenever anyone sends me something like this, though - some little inconsequential item which brought me into their minds - I'm always immensely happy. Perhaps that makes me needy; rather, I hope it means I look for pleasure in small things. If that's true, it means you've seen it too. Thank you. Here they are, dotted about - just a few recent ones. 

There's also this song,which I love, and this blog post, which is just delicious. I want to be her.

www.thebloggess.com

Okay - one spoon-biting moment. For undisclosed reasons, I've been obliged to make my Instagram account private. A private IG profile! Oxymoron much? There hasn't been a greater vehicle for displaying images of narcissistic optimism since the Great Pyramids of Giza. I'm rather fond of my IG account, and I post in there quite frequently. There are many others which would register far higher on the -ometers of Art, Poetry, Beauty, baked goods and Ass-Selfies; still, if you don't already follow me, I'd love it if you would. Otherwise, you won't be able to see my pretty stuff. And that would be a shame. 

Instagram. It makes your eyes go funny

*That's not to say that much has not been written on this subject that isn't well-presented and valid. Here's my favourite. Plus there's this, which about sums it up:

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

THIS TOO SHALL PASS. AND IT DID

Just a quick one tonight: I was going through a trunk - you know, one of those trunks: the dusty, long-forgot ones, fastened for good reason. Ah, the follies of youth. I found this, which I must have written, and my guess is that it hurt at the time:

...and it made me think of this, which I've been playing in my car because I love the album. Check it out. 

A MITOCHONDRIAL DEBT OF GRATITUDE

 MY GRANDMA is ninety-eight today. She broke her hip recently, and the Doctors didn't think she'd make it. But she bloody did. So they gave her a new hip. Then she had a fall and broke her nose, and the Nurses named her Miss Independence and she recovered. 

My Grandma is amazing. My Grandma renews her circle of friends every ten years or so: not that she outgrows them; she out-lives them. My Grandma likes Bombay Sapphire and Grey Goose. My Grandma can still beat me at Scrabble.

My Grandma is still beautiful. My Grandma will not be beaten.

Here is a poem about birthdays. I've just noticed it's one of three that I've written where the last line is nicked from Shakespeare. I didn't write it for my Grandma, but I like it and it's got a Hello! style magazine cover to go with it, which is at the bottom, and you can scroll down and look at it, but read the poem first, please, because it's fun, and it's got fairies in and that.

Happy Birthday, Fairy

Happy Birthday!  Being nine

Is super fun – it’s just divine!

And so last-year, now, to be eight:

Quite vieux-chapeau (that’s ‘out of date’)

But: with age comes duty, too

And every fairy knows it’s true

So in between the cake and tea,

And all good things your day should be

A moment, please, to think about

A fairy’s work indoors and out

Wave your wand about like so

To make the pretty flowers grow

In brightly-coloured dainty crowds

Shine the sun and pink the clouds,

Shake the trees to fill the air

With perfumed cherry-blossom fair,

Smile to lift the sky – and just

Remember all that Fairy Dust

Won’t get sprinkled by itself

And never ask a passing Elf

To help – they simply can’t be trusted

To get a single daisy dusted -

Let alone a Fairy Dell

(Do that yourself, it’s just as well);

Bollocks to all that – it’s too

Much like hard work, I think – don’t you?

Sit your arse down, have a fag

A quick flick through a gossip rag

And gloat at all the trash you read

About Peaseblossom, Mustardseed

Cobweb, Moth and all the others

A-List Fairies, like Godmothers

Down through all the woodland folk

Like talking rabbits (what a joke:

Who on earth cares what they say?

They’re high on clover anyway

Check out those photos! What the fuck –

Somebody’s had something tucked

I can’t believe it’s Tinker Bell!

Mavis Cruet’s diet hell

Is all behind her,she looks grand

(She’s fitted with a gastric band)

In his column, saucy Puck

Rakes through all the fairy muck:

Turns out Oberon has fathered

Quite a clutch of fairy bastards

When it broke, as scandals must

Titania hit the fairy dust

Never one to take things lightly

The fairy queen, it’s said, was nightly

Found sprawled upon a bed of Moss

Til Kate herself was at a loss

There’s only so much you can do

Men will be men, and fairies too

Lay aside such trifling leaves

There’s yet an arc of spells to weave

So polish up your fairy shoes

And then, the magic evening dews

Will need a very generous sprinkling

Drip drops until the garden’s twinkling:

For many a Princess’s true-love spell

(A few enchanted frogs’, as well)

Have sadly never come to pass

Because some sprite could not be arsed

Enchanting every nook and cranny

Granted it’s a proper fanny

If the job’s done properly

But all the fairy folk agree

Far worse if we were stuck inside

At office desk and chair confined

Screen-gazing til our temples bleed

Lord, what fools these mortals be

 

© Muriel Lavender

September 2011

Rubbish artwork © Muriel Lavender using Paintbox and a rather cool tattoo I found on the Internets

IT'S OK, THE STORM HAS PASSED. BUT...

In the rain I stood

In my knickers and my wellington boots

Thunder growling and rolling

And the night by the lightning stolen

And how did that feel?

I wasn’t feeling then. I was thinking, thinking

COME ON UNIVERSE!! WHAT HAVE YOU GOT FOR ME?!

Did it smile upon you? Did you hear what it was saying?

It fucking roared

And its smile lit the sky

Then – I was feeling.

Then, I was feeling, I.

And the rain washed pain from my boots 

And mud from my core

And it poured

©Muriel Lavender  

July 18, 2014

01:04

THE GLORIOUS TWENTY-FIFTH OF MAY

I'm posting this now because I'm just about to leave for the Great British Tattoo Show and I won't be able to do bloggery for a few days.  Then I'm going to do some slightly mad things in a field in Oxfordshire*. But, good people, 25 May is Towel Day. Douglas, I love you, and I always will. Thank you, for everything. 

Oh, good lord... I very rarely 'unfriend' people. If I have done, it's always been because they've expressed or spread extreme racist ignorance, particularly if directed at an individual (it would be fair to wonder why such a person would be on my friends list at all, but remember, we’re talking about social media here. It’s not the same as exchanging body fluids. Ugh).

This comment popped up in my feed recently:

"well, just finished reading 'hitchhikers guide to the galaxy - the trilogy of four' the omnibus edition! if anyone wants it, they can have it for the cost of the postage!! didn't really enjoy it and won't be reading it again!!"(Capital letters? No, thought not.)

...and I moved to the 'Unfriend' button.  What sort of cock would react so dismissively to H2G2 – and then admit it in public?! That’s like saying “I lack even the most basic insight into the nature of humanity and the Universe, and here, have my brain, because I’m not using it.” 

Then I thought, No, I'm pretty easygoing, and a complete attention-whore, and people are allowed to think differently to the way I think - I'll just read through his timeline before I make a snap judgement.

Guess what? It's full of racist bile! BYEEEE! HA HA HA HA HA HA HAAAA!

Some lilac. Some of you will know why.

 I lifted this text (below) directly from Ben Mapp’s “Douglas Adams’ Lost Legacy” blog post from 19 March 2013 – so it’s not mine, and I am in no way pretending it is. Here’s the original blog. Please visit it out of courtesy, and stay because he's a pleasure to read, but then come back:

http://www.imwithgeek.com/8/post/2014/03/douglas-adams-lost-legacy.html

Quote begins:

Today it was revealed that an archivist at Brentwood school discovered a poem written by the 17-year-old Adams. It was written in 1970 as part of an initiation to the upper-sixth’s literary society, featuring the theme of ‘candles’ along with the works of his fellow students (including that of comic actor Griff Rhys Jones).

The full poem is as follows:

A Dissertation on the task of writing a poem on a candle and an account of some of the difficulties thereto pertaining

by Douglas Adams, January 1970

I resisted temptation for this declamation
To reach out to literary height
For high aspiration in such an oration
Would seem quite remarkably trite:
So I thought something pithy and succinct and clever
Was exactly the right thing to write.


For nights I sat musing
And musing ... and musing
Whilst burning the midnight oil;
My scratchings seemed futile
My muse seemed quite mute, while
My work proved to be barren toil.

I puzzled and thought and wrestled and fought
'Till my midnight oil was exhausted,
So I furthered my writing by dim candle lighting,
And found, to my joy, this of course did
The trick, for I flowered,
My work - candle-powered –
Was inspired, both witty and slick.

Pithy and polished, my writing demolished
Much paper, as I beguiled
Myself with some punning,
(My word play was stunning,)
I wrote with the wit of a Wilde.

At length it was finished, the candle diminished,
I pondered and let my pride burn
At the great acclamation, the standing ovation
Its first public reading would earn.

But lost in the rapture of anticipation
And thinking how great was my brilliant creation
I quite failed to note as I gazed into space
That incendiary things were about to take place:
That which had ignited my literary passion,
Was about to ignite what my passion had fashion'd.

And - oh! - all was lost in a great conflagration
And I just sat there and said 'Hell and damnation',
For the rest of the night and the following day.
(My muse in the meantime had flitted away
Alarmed, no doubt, at the ornamentation
My language acquired with increased consternation.

So unhaply the fruits of my priceless endeavour
Are lost to the literary world forever.
For now I offer this poem instead,
Which explains in itself why the other's unsaid.

Quote ends. *Sobs quietly*

*I think Douglas would be proud of me.