Oh bugger!

Warning – contains f****ing rudery

Am I too crude? Do I swear too much?  I’ve been wondering lately, about my fondness for the vulgar. The other day James persuaded me to come to a badminton evening at the village hall. Why? I dunno – end of the holidays I suppose and his boredom had reached a new slough.  Anyhow, I missed an easy shot rather spectacularly and shot out a plosive ‘Bugger!’  A frown appeared from the other side of the net.

‘Oh shit, I’m so sorry,’ I said, terribly politely.  And then, I confess, I laughed, which probably made it worse.  

And then, the other day, I posted up this thingy on Facebook on horoscopes cos it made me crack up laughing.  And a lot of people laughed too and cheerily admitted they were perverted psychos or whiny bimbos or flaky derelicts.  But one friend expressed disquiet, saying ‘I find calling someone or something a ‘fucktard’ is ultimately corrosive – not of them or it, but of me.’

And I thought about it.  And I looked at the horoscope thingy again and it still made me laugh.  Cos we all have rotten sides, don’t we?  We all have a shadow and I know that, sure as eggs is eggs, I’m one greedy emo alright.  And then I got to thinking about how I use swearing, and why.  And whether it really is corrosive for my soul to call someone a fucktard.  In a fond way, of course.

And then, in a timely fashion, Mike, this guy I chat to online said how he had a Twitter account dedicated to ‘creative cursing’ so I asked him about it.  And he said: ‘I'm an amateur really, but I think nicely written rants and insults blended with just the right amount of swearing, and mis-using words, can make people laugh.  For example the C word as a verb, for example "that was cu**ng excellent".’ 

And he differentiated that from ‘pure swearing’ where you just call people ‘effing wankers’ cos you can’t think of anything else to say.  Which I agreed with but I pushed him on it and said, ‘But why? Why is swearing so good?’  And he went on to say that swearing can be a release and that maybe it’s because there is a finite amount of swear phrases which ‘gives the whole thing limits.’  Though then he went on to say that new ones do ‘pop up from time to time (i.e. tea bagger). Huh? *reaches for urban dictionary*. 

And then we had a conversation about the best languages for swearing and he reckoned Dutch was good but I said Polish won hands down cos I have never EVER come across a language which is quite so inventive when it comes to cussing.  You know how the Inuit or whoever are supposed to have 50 words for snow? Well I reckon the Poles must have well over 50 words for fuck. 

But, bottom line, he said. ‘Swearing's important. Imagine if you didn't do it? I remember being nine or so and thinking "I can't wait ‘til I'm old enough to swear.’ 

Now I can’t say that thought ever crossed my mind.  My parents never swore in front of me when I was a child (and let me add, swiftly, that I didn't ever swear in front of James when he was small).  In fact, my mother was so innocent that when my brother (aged two) sat on the bus proudly going ‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’ she didn’t bat an eyelid and couldn’t understand why she was getting filthy looks.  She told my father who apparently rolled his eyes and sighed, ‘Oh Rosemary.’ 

You know, I fucking love that story!

But anyhow, I went back to Mike and said, ‘Yeah. I hear you but…why?’  And he said. ‘Because you’re not supposed to, I suppose.’

Is that it?  Is it the naughtiness?  A tiny act of rebellion?  Or just to raise a laugh?  Not entirely, I feel.  I think, for me, it’s about contrast.  I love language. No, that’s not strong enough: I fucking adore language. I like the way sounds sound rolling round my mouth and floating through my head.  I often re-edit a sentence a score of times so it has the right cadence as well as the correct meaning.  And sometimes a swear word fits the bill just perfectly.  It punctuates a sentence – a short staccato stab, a verbal shock, a start in the middle or a full spat-out stop.  A judiciously placed fuck or cunt is a seizure to the senses. 

But what about the guy down the pub who grunts, ‘You’re all fucking cunts’ as he staggers out the door?  Well, I doubt he ponders cadence but hey, I suppose he’s speaking the truth as he sees it. 

Now, I’m guessing many of you will respond that there is a hierarchy of swearing.  That shit is maybe ‘okay’ and that you’ll admit to the odd ‘fuck’ but you would never ever use ‘the C word’. Because it’s demeaning to women and all.  Well, y’know, I hear you but, consider this...words only have the power to hurt if you claim them; if you let them define you.  I've been called a cunt many the time - sometimes with sad impotent venom, sometimes with a curious fondness. Does it bother me? Not remotely. 

Btw, do I let James swear?  Well, it’s like this. I know he swears – all 13 year old boys do, whether you like it or not and whether or not they admit it to you.  We have talked about it (like we talk about most things) and I have told him my position on it - that a good swear is a wonderful thing but, like a lot of other wonderful things, it needs using appropriately if in public.  ‘Yeah, right, Mother,’ he said.  He’s taken to calling me Mother (with a very capital M) lately.  ‘Like on the buggering badminton court in Brushford, eh?’  Oh bugger.

P.S. Where's Frankie?  This post needs Frankie input. 

What kills us...

You know that phrase - you are what you eat?  Well, actually, yeah - your body takes what you put into it and uses it to make you - from the inside out. 

During the summer holidays, a friend had a heart attack.  He’s okay but he’s got to have a bypass.  Could he have prevented it?  Well, I’m no doctor but I can’t help but wonder if eating like it were an Olympian sport, drinking like the proverbial fish and not exercising allied with a big dollop of stress probably had something to do with it.  And y’know, heart disease kills someone every 39 seconds – howzat for a depressing fact for a Friday afternoon?  

I can’t remember quite why, but the other day I looked up the statistics for what causes the most deaths.  It varies a little, depending on where you live but, if you look at the world as a whole, heart disease is the #1  killer.  Road traffic accidents come in at #10 if you were wondering (just five people per year are killed by sharks, one less than those who exit this mortal coil courtesy of rollercoasters).  

Actually the stats make really interesting reading.  For example, cancer only makes a top ten appearance in high-income countries.  Makes you wonder, huh?

But anyhow.  I have  no right to come over all holier than thou and, let’s be honest, most of us do pretty similar stuff, albeit maybe not quite so extreme.  We eat stuff that is crap for us because…we like the taste. We don’t want to be deprived.  Or maybe it is even more perverse than that.  I don’t particularly adore food but lately I’ve been punishing myself with it.  I know it’s stupid, really stupid but hey, sometimes you stop caring about yourself, huh?  So I’ve been sloshing down wine (and feeling like absolute shite) and necking back cheese (makes me snotty and mucusy) and chomping on bread (churns my guts and makes me fart something rotten). Jesus, this is too painfully honest, even for me.  I know, I know, I know. I kicked the crap - for a long time.  And, for pity's sake, I write self-help books; I’m supposedly a health writer – I know this stuff.  I can feel all too well what works for my body and what doesn’t. 

But here’s the really interesting thing.  Since pursuing my recent anti-health cum death-wish food regime I’ve been clobbered by a really shitty attack of auto-immune related rheumatism…something I’ve been pretty well clear of for…well…ages.  And all self-inflicted, eh? How freaking stupid is that? 

So, enough already.  I’ve done the dirty and I’ve paid the price so now it’s back to being kind to my body - foodwise.  Cos, really, is it worth feeling shite and risking your health just for the sake of how a bit of grub feels in your mouth for a few minutes? 

I truly believe that food plays a part in the harm or heal equation. It's not the only thing, of course (the mind is the major player), but it does make a big difference.  If you want to feel good (and to kick one helluva lot of health issues into touch) maybe start by looking at what you put in your mouth.  It’s not a one size fits all thingy – you have to play around a bit and find out what works for you.  But, hate to break it to you guys, it’s not likely to be cupcakes, steak butties and gin. 

The Pretender...

Last night I dreamed I was at an old funfair.  Adrian said, 'This way' and I realised we were climbing up the wooden tracks of the runaway train ride. 'Is this a good idea?' I thought, but didn't say. 'The bends are blind and what if a train comes down?'  But the tracks were old and worn.  And no train came and we came to a break in the track, an opening out, and people looked at us as if we were mad and someone said, 'And why on earth would you do that?' And I shook my head and shrugged and silently agreed.

And the last few weeks, I have had this song running through my head which I can't stop. In fact, I got up even earlier than usual this morning to steal James' headphones so I could listen to it, to see if it is how I remember. But seems even his headphones don't work in my PC now. You gotta laugh, huh?  You gotta laugh.

Anyhow, you can hear it even if I can't. Can't you?  :-)

Rain...

Woke this morning to the sound of rain, relentless rain...again.  And this poem, which I always loved, since having to learn it by rote at school, inevitably rode through my mind.  Funny thing, memory - when I looked it up (to save typing it all out), it was different from how I remembered.  

Rain by Edward Thomas

Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain
On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me
Remembering again that I shall die
And neither hear the rain nor give it thanks
For washing me cleaner than I have been
Since I was born into this solitude.
Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon:
But here I pray that none whom once I loved
Is dying to-night or lying still awake
Solitary, listening to the rain,
Either in pain or thus in sympathy
Helpless among the living and the dead,
Like a cold water among broken reeds,
Myriads of broken reeds all still and stiff,
Like me who have no love which this wild rain
Has not dissolved except the love of death,
If love it be towards what is perfect and
Cannot, the tempest tells me, disappoint. 

I've had enough...of journalism

Ah, sod it.  Three rants in three hours?  Why not?

I had an email from a magazine yesterday.  I’d pitched an idea to them. The editor loved it. They wanted the piece. Could they have X words by X date?  Yes, yes, yip, yip.  Except…right at the end…as a breezy afterthought… ‘Of course, we can’t pay you for it.’  As if it were the funniest thing in the world.  As if I didn't need their money; as if writing were just a hobby, a bit of fun.

It’s happening more and more.  Now everyone is a writer, magazines and papers (yes, even national newspapers in some instances) no longer feel the need to pay for content.  Why should they, when people are willing to write for nothing?  Just as they no longer need to pay for staff when they can get interns to do the work – for nothing.

Robyn's stuff... I love this girl.  :-)  

I talked to my friend Zoe about it. Her daughter is trying to get a job in journalism.  ‘Please tell her not even to go there,’ I’d said (having seen the writing on the wall years back) but Robyn was determined, focused, driven, talented (all qualities that, in the old days, would have seen her fly to the top).  She’s good, really good (and, trust me, I’m well picky).  So good, in fact, that she gets published all over the place – big glossy magazines. (check her out - click here)

‘Has it earned her a single quid?’ said Zoe with a deep sigh. ‘Has it fuck? She works part-time doing whatever paid grunt work she can get her hands on and interns the rest of the time – free, gratis, mugged.’ She paused and shook her head. ‘Your industry is evil.’

She’s damn right. It is.

And then she said this and, really, I couldn’t put it better myself.  So, if you don't mind, I’ll just let her rant on my behalf. 

‘Your whole industry has changed,’ she said. ‘And it’s still in a state of flux. Anyone can be a writer now, can’t they?  Just as anyone can be famous. It doesn't take talent any more. Look at the idiots they have presenting popular TV these days. Read any tabloid (if you can stomach it). And what about all those celeb mags (from Hello downwards)? They’re just full of salacious crap. A five year old could have written most of it. Gossip is all people seem interested in.

‘They said religion was the opiate of the masses. Not anymore. Gossip, tittle tattle and the 'Public Interest' (what a sick joke that is most the time given the way it’s used to justify the most appalling invasions of people’s private lives, phone hacking and so on) are the new religion. We don’t get the news reported any more, not facts, we get some idiot’s interpretation of those facts, Speculation, and sensationalism sells and it’s all about the bottom line. Sod quality and standards. Even Aunty Beeb is guilty. The lowest common dominator prevails.’

Go Zoe.  She’s right. I’ve talked about this before and, honestly, it’s not sour grapes. I’ve had a damn good run in journalism. I made a heck of a decent living out of it in the past and it’s taken me to amazing places and let me meet amazing people (and a fair few scumbags too, but hey).  But now? 

It’s coming to the point where you need to have a private income if you want to be a journalist.  Rates (where they are paid at all) have plummeted and expenses are non-existent.  So, if you’re asked to go and interview someone in, say, Manchester, you will have to stump up the train fare out of your (already meagre) fee. 

Does it matter?  Shouldn’t everyone have a voice in the media?  Shouldn’t it be open to all? Shouldn’t it allow in new blood?  Well, yes. But in some fields experience really does count for a lot and professional journalists have learned (often the hard way by getting their hypothetical balls crushed by some scathing editor) to check facts, to check sources, to get balanced opinions, to look all around the issue and put in the caveats.  And, see, here’s the interesting thing.  In the past, the newspaper industry was one of the few truly egalitarian workplaces.  Many editors worked their way up from the very bottom, from being the post boy.  Nowadays that simply can’t happen. 

A new career? 

Virtually all the good journalists I used to know have thrown in the towel and retrained.  Because they’re sick – sick of the dumbing down of the press; sick of being shunted aside for some celebrity whose copy will have been written by an unpaid ripped off intern; sick of jumping through hoops for less and less money (I now earn on average 60 percent less per feature than I did 20 years ago – yes, you read that right).

So really…I’ve had enough.  Time to find a new way to bring home the bacon. 

Yeah, I'll shut up now...and go chill.  *smile*  

Tesco saves my school bacon...

Can I quietly scream? Will you mind? Nothing major; just a small strangled ‘aaaghhhhhh’.  Three small words, six meagre syllables that drive me demented. School freaking uniform.  

Get that hair on the left...

The return to school is looming into view and I keep gazing gloomily at the list.  Okay, so I get why schools feel the need to do the uniform thingy. I get that it’s all about ‘TEAM US’ (that’s ‘us’ as in ‘we’, not US as in the USA). I get the argument that it’s a leveler – that it stops arsey little brats coming in and doing the whole ‘I’m wearing Abercrombie/Superdry/Jack Wills/Versace/whatever and you, poor trailer trash scumbag, are wearing ‘George by Asda’ one-upmanship malarkey.  I get that it makes it easier to find and apportion blame when they torch a car or barge past people onto the bus or whatever.  I get it although, to be honest, I’m not entirely convinced.  But, hey, it is what it is and so on and so forth but, but, but…

…really, why do they have to make it so…arcane?  Why can’t they just say – ‘Look, chuck ‘em in grey trousers/skirts; white shirts; grey jumpers and let’s call it a day, guys.’?  Yeah?  No.

It’s always got to be the ‘right kind’ of grey.  The navy jumper has to have the blasted logo on it, doesn’t it?  And then…I shouldn’t have started, should I? Get this… For the last two years (years 7 and 8) James’ school hasn’t prescribed a blazer.  There was some kind of weird optional coat that they all point-blank refused to wear (didn’t remotely blame them, it was seriously minging), so he ended up getting on the school bus each day, even in the depths of winter, even in driving rain, wearing just a skimpy jersey. Mad.  This year (to compensate maybe?) it appears they require TWO blazers. One for everyday wear and one for ‘smart stuff’.  What smart stuff?  Come to think of it, let’s not think about it cos it’s bound to involve more cash.  Oh just…aaaghhh. 

And they’ve changed the sports kit – again.  WHY?  What was wrong with the old one? They’re a school, for heaven’s sake, not a football club. 

It could be worse – some boy we used to know had to wear flipping lederhosen to school – in London.  And again, I ask you…why?  Character-building? 

I suppose nothing has really changed.  When I was at school – in an uber-strict state grammar, we had to wear freaking tartan skirts (yup, kilts - feel free to laugh) and a particular blue open-necked shirt that could only be bought from one particular shop in, of all places, Twickenham. I can remember the look of horror on my poor mother’s face even now as she scanned the seemingly endless list. A boater?  A BOATER?  Thank feck I didn’t get one – only two girls wore them on the first day and they both managed to slide them quietly into a ditch by 9am.

Anyhow. Thank heavens for the kind PRs at Tesco Back to School who must have been reading my anguished mind as they sent an email asking if I’d like some school kit for James.  Er…YESSSS!  For freak’s sake, send it over and send it over fast.  Before my credit card reports me to CreditLine for severe emotional abuse. So they did, bless them.

Tesco Back to School gear...

I used to buy James’ school stuff (the generic trousers and shirts and all – the bits that don’t have to have badges and stripes and logos) from Marks and Spencer but, really, these are every bit as good (if not better actually - cos, I don't know about you but strikes me Marks ain't what it used to be - the last few pairs of pants I've had have just sort of collapsed - and, no, they weren't put under any particular strain) and a fair bit cheaper.  I thought he might go all teenage sniffy on me over the shoes (which are a SERIOUS bargain).  

The last couple of years he has refused to go the usual Clark’s children’s route and has resolutely bought from the men’s department.  But, to my total surprise, he deemed the lace-ups ‘fine’.  The coat met with a curl of the lip but that was just fine and dandy as I simply nabbed it for myself.  Socks, pants, trousers, shirts and really nice bright red polo shirts all met with teenage approval – the polo shirts so much that he’s already wearing them – yeah, by choice, in the holidays, in public.  And at least these won’t fall apart the way the rip-off Ralph Lauren ones from Turkey did. 

So. Seriously. Take a look.  And thank you, Tesco.  And…School...just don’t talk to me, alright? 

I just don't get it... (GMO reprised)

‘I just don’t get it,’ I said to Becky as we slung kettlebells around down by the river.

‘Huh?’ she said.  I think the grunt was in reference to my utterance (but you can never be sure when you're doing kettlebells).

‘Well,’ I said. How come the Co-op say on their website that they have banned GM foods yet their goat’s cheese says it was made using genetically modified pseudo-rennet?’

‘Huh?’ That was definitely in reference to me as she turned and frowned (though, then again, that’s a common facial expression during clean and press.

‘Yup,’ I said.

‘Did you ask them about it?’ she said.

‘I sure did,’ I said. And I had. And this chap, Richard Carroll, had emailed me back and said

"Dear Jane, 

Thanks for your email. We have banned Genetically Modified (GM) crops, ingredients or additives in Co-operative brand food products since 1999…

With regard to the goats' cheese you bought… although a GM rennet has been used, there is no actual GM in the final cheese..."

Hmm. Is it just me, or is that a bit disingenuous?  So they can claim the high ground cos there’s no GM actually left in the final product, even though it was used in the making thereof?  And look at that statement again – carefully.  They have banned GM in their own-brand products – ergo, not in all the products they stock.

Am I being too picky here?  I guess their statement is literally factually correct, but surely it goes against the spirit of the thing?  Google Co-operative and GM and the results make them sound like the saints of the marketplace. But it's not entirely true that they're white knights on gleaming white chargers, is it?  They're kinda a bit muddy.

So I emailed him back and he emailed me back again pointing out that they ‘go further than most retailers with the information we provide so I don’t feel this is disingenuous.’  And then (was he gritting his teeth? It’s always so hard to tell with emails) he said, ‘This information is provided with our customers’ interest in mind and we are not obliged to provide it.’

Yup, I hear you – you’re the white knights, right?    The knights who say, 'Er...

‘The product does not contain GM ingredients so labelling it as such would be incorrect. As previously explained, we have banned genetically modified crops, ingredients or additives in Co-operative band food products since 1999.’ 

Yes, yes, I heard you the first time.  But, y’know, I’m still frowning over this. 

As you probably know, I don’t like GM.  It may be totally safe for us to eat (I have absolutely no idea – I don’t think anyone really has any idea longterm – how can they?  But just bear in mind that people used to think smoking was good for people with asthma).  What does seem pretty clear to me is that it isn’t remotely safe for our environment.  But hey, it's our children and grandchildren who'll have to worry about that, right? :( 

I’m not a food fascist.  I figure everyone has the right to eat and drink exactly what they choose.  Sure, it saddens me when James drinks Coke and other fizzy drinks (and particularly if he drinks the ones that come stuffed with aspartame – cos, truly, they haven’t got a CLUE what that particular  baby does to your brain).  Sure I kinda wince when I see people ladle saturated fat into their bodies but hey…what can I do?  As far as James is concerned, all I can do is inform him and not keep the stuff in the house.  What he does when he’s out has to be his business.

But I do think food and drink should be clearly labelled so we can make informed choices.  Personally I’d like to see a clear label (not some tiny small print on the back of a label) saying if any GMO has been implicated in the making of the foodstuff.  But that ain’t gonna happen, is it?  Cos there are too many vested interests at stake. 

Sadly this is a spoof but...

It’s not just the Co-op of course – but I guess I expected a bit more from this particular operation, given they tout their ethics so much. 

 

Anyhow.  By the time I’d stopped discussing this with Becky, the class was almost over.

‘The world’s crazy,’ she said, shaking her head sadly.  'Crazy.' 

And we manoeuvred into Plank as the first drops of rain started falling.