bored of excitement – the griefjunkie blog
Archive for April, 2010
Wednesday, April 28th, 2010
Middle class people can’t say ‘mate’ properly. They can say the actual word alright, but it sounds a bit implausible, in the same way that you could feasibly meet a man called Jim Membership, but you probably won’t.
Fortunately. the internet – along with rugby, festivals, voting, picnics, hypocracy, blogging, and lesbianism – is an almost exclusively middle class hobby, so while we’re here you might want to try speaking aloud your half of an imaginary conversation with a member of the working class – be it a removal man, plumber, or slag. The chances are you’ll fall down by pronouncing the ‘t’ in ‘mate’, which really you need to fold away into the roof of your mouth with the back of your tongue when you say it, so that it doesn’t escape and make you look like a tourist. Linguisticians refer to this escaping ‘t’ sound as a ‘Fuckwit T’.
Friday, April 23rd, 2010
I was talking to a bloke on Nelson Road the other day, who was at odds with his horse because, remarkably, he felt it was sarcastic. I was fairly taken aback, as you may expect, and took him up on his offer of a closer look. The horse – Barry – did have a slightly quizzical air about him, I suppose, but so would you if you were a large equine quadroped with a market trader of murky repute looking at you and saying ‘Yeah he probably just wants some crisps’.
I am, however, in an excellent position to judge the mood of horses and other mammals as I like to talk to them and do their replies back, mainly for the entertainment of small children, but also if I have nothing else to do of an afternoon. Because of this, there is a large part of my mind that is entirely at ease with the idea of horses having bank accounts, schools, library cards and putting on hats and false moustaches in order to buy Pringles and Kit Kats from local retailers, and while my conversations with them over the years have revealed them to be kind hearted, wise if somewhat ninnyish, and fond of practical jokes, I can’t really imagine one saying ‘Oh yummy – Greenwich again! Fanfuckingtastic! You really have made my happiness perfect, complete, and infifuckingnite’ or whatever. On that basis, I clear Barry of all charges of sarcasm.
Monday, April 12th, 2010
I haven’t blushed since 1994, but I did on Saturday at Greenwich Market after I asked a lady at the stall how far along she was, to which she revealed that she wasn’t actually pregnant. For a gentleman retailer such as myself, whose livelihood pretty much depends on saying inappropriate things to strangers, I’m quite surprised I’ve avoided this classic pitfall for so long. The fact is, she did look pregnant, but this wasn’t as significant for me as the other, subsequent, fact, which was that her and her boyfriend were too nice to leave the stall indignantly like normal people, but just stood there for ages looking at aprons and discussing which one would suit which of their friends, and so on, while I blushed so much that I gave myself a slight headache. Even my teeth were blushing, and I had that thing where you get a roaring noise in your ears because there is so much blood charging towards your blush nodes.