A few words on the subject

A few words on the subject

The collected

ill-informed drivel

of

Richard Asplin

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March 2010

A few words on throwin' shapes, bustin' moves and whatnot

Part II

2nd March 2010

Hello again, fans of Strictly Come Fever (an excellent celebrity porn-based Saturday nite family vehicle for Graham Norton. Sign him up now, Auntie Beeb).

How have you been? All is marvellous, I trust.

You left me having a small crises over my Christmas party. Do you remember? Seems a long time ago now. So much has changed since then. We were all younger, certainly. Tighter of skin, wider of eye, hopeful of heart and…this is becoming a bit of a late 1980s Stephen Fry monologue so we’ll crack on.

Yes. It was last year, around Christmas time.

(The dearly missed Smash Hits magazine used to refer to the season as Chrimbo, I think. Am I right, Black Type fans? I certainly have never forgotten “Paul Sir Fab wacky Macca thumbs-aloft McCartney”. Fuck, this really IS turning into a Neil Tennant memoir. Let‘s chivvy along).

All the office gang were piled in to a rented bit of a local Kingston pub. There were trestly tables and raffle-ticket style drinks tokens and a buffet. All the gals had reet tarted the’sels up a treet, with off the shoulder whatnots and strappy doo-dahs, not to mention spaghetti-strapped thingumys and the odd sequinned owsyerfather.

The fellahs? Well as is usual on these occasions (and I know I’m about to come over about as musty and fusty and old fashioned and retrograde and Liberal means soft on crime, soft on drugs, soft on Communism, soft on defence, and we're gonna tax you back to the Stone Age because people shouldn't have to go to work if they don't want to, and instead of saying, "Well, excuse me, you right-wing, reactionary, xenophobic, homophobic, anti-education, anti-choice, pro-gun, Leave It To Beaver trip back to the Fifties...!", you cowered in the corner, and said, "Please. Don't. Hurt. Me."

Uhm, sorry. I appear to have briefly morphed into someone else there. I don’t know why. I mean, you would think harmlessly experimenting with two Teleportation devices in my industrial loft style apartment with Bruno Gianelli, the campaign adviser from the West Wing, played by Ron Silver, wouldn’t be risky would you.

Would you . . ?

Yes, the guys had all taken “smart casual” or “party wear” or (and I’m going to be a bit sick in my mouth now) “dress to impress” to mean what all guys under 30, bar none, no exceptions, take it to mean. Which is

Untucked Ben Sherman.

Jeans with pre-faded patches

Slip ons

I mean for Chrissakes people. I was out at a cocktail bar with my now good lady wife (I just said “good lady wife.” Jesus, it’s that door-opening thing again [see A Few Words on 17th Feb].

Wait.

Stop.

My head is getting full.

I now have, let me count, 5 ideas going at once. Dancing, Christmas, Men’s attire, The West Wing, olde fashioned terms for wife. Let’s take a breather and get back on track.

Okay.

1. Being married is clearly an old fashioned idea, hence the need for twitwits like me to descend into sub cod Sherrinisms such as “my good lady wife.” I will try to stop.

2. Men under 30 by and large don’t do dressy-up formal smart wear unless they are going to a job interview. Jeans and a suit jacket (only if the suit jacket is from Top Man and has revolting rust-coloured pre-faded embroidery across the yoke about some olde Yankee college). This is annoying.

3. Christmas dancing. Yes. Back on track. Phew. Close one there.

Well everyone traded their drinks tokens for beer and wine and whatnot, and secret santas were santandered and tables were moved and the dancing commenced.

This would normally be where I slide up to the centre spotlight and began some kind of hip, Will Smith, just-bounce-with-me just-slide-with-me MIB groove thing. Before then executing p’raps a spin, a bit of twitchy elbow, a clap, a twist or some such.

As it was, I spent the next 2 hours watching colleagues get down and get funky with moves and grooves and twirls and whatnot. There did appear at one point to be a bit of a “dance off” which had the gals cheering and clapping like a Boots Christmas TV commercial / Harvester office party.

(Now I’ve been privy, neigh a participant in a dance off once or twice myself. I recall one in Lloyds Bar on Park Place. My opponent (one Terrence McDonald) put up an otherwise brave fight that would have secured him the belt against any other contender. However, he underestimated my Shakin’ Stevens tribute training since the age of 9 and with manly back-slappage, I think we called it a draw.

The second one was frankly more formal - as 3 members of staff were nominated in advance for a dance-off at Legal & General Retail Investments’ Summer Ball, to win the not-in-the-least-bit coveted “John Travolta Award.” A high pressure environs. I recall at one point the contestant on my left actually leapt atop a table and began thrusty knee wobbles much to the hoot n holler of the assembled investment staff.

Harumph.

I’ll just quote Muriel’s Wedding and say “flashy crowd-pleasing steps,” point out the shiny award that sits next to my desk fan and we’ll move on).

I remained rooted to the floor watching my Christmas colleagues jive and groove and get slightly inappropriate with the floosier of drunk staff and nary even tapped a foot.

This, for me, was profoundly disturbing. For ‘the only explanation I can find’ ( as the hungry Karen Carpenter used to say) was the fact I was sober. Dry. Wagon-riding.

I quit drinking on November 23rd 2009, as followers will know (still a-clingin’ to that wagon you’ll be not at all bothered to hear) and this party was my first attendance at a dance-meet without the help of beer or wine. Now I have enough self awareness to know that a glass or two of Johnny Knock-Me-Down (as the excellent Mark Kermode calls it. Have you bought his book yet? Oh what’s wrong with you?) is an excellent all in one lubricant, working as it does the hips and the floor.

How much I clearly relied upon said Jenny Snog-The-Boss (my derivative new word for it) for help with the inhibition-removal was not clear to me until this sorry Kingston night.

And so it was heavy of heart and clumpy of shoe that I returned home, buzzing from 8 pints of lemonade, to hang up my red dancing shoes, knowing that in the choice between mental-health and body-poppin’, sadly it was the Tiffany-inspired Egyptian voguey thrusty hand dance that lost.

Until now…

Because, as mentioned in January 20th’s “Few Words…” I have - oh yes - been attending a dance-class.

Based in Holborn, off Kingsway (he said, semi-deliberate Londonist referencing designed clearly to exclude the non metropolitan), it’s a weekly hour long set up, with a charming (read: camp with sideburns) dance teacher, his elfin assistant (read: pencil-waisted size zero slip of a thing) who walk a room full of Londoners of varying hoofing abilities/commitment through the steps of the Lindyhop.

Now for those who aren’t aware - which appears to be 98.3% of everyone I’ve spoken to, it’s over to the nice, yet charmingly inaccurate, folk at Wikipedia…

“The Lindy Hop is based on the popular Charleston and named for Charles Lindbergh's Atlantic crossing in 1927. It evolved in New York City in the 1920s and '30s and originally evolved with the jazz music of that time. Lindy was a fusion of many dances that preceded it or were popular during its development but is mainly based on jazz, tap, breakaway and Charleston.”

So there.

What this means, essentially is the sort of lively bouncy jive-ish two-tone shod war-time Jazzy crackly 78s dance. Picture gals with a flower in their hair and bobby sox, GIs in those beige Thunderbirds-style hats and Brylcreemed short back n sides.

To see it being done in a way that might actually make you, like I, say : “Holy shit…” you can click here. (Thanks to my dance partner for the link).

So. Upshot is, we’ve done 7 weeks.

Now I can’t say it’s anything like the Hellzapoppin movie on the link. It is a bit.

But, well, slower. With less throws. And more saying “ow, shit, I thought it was kick turn kick? Oh, Turn kick turn. Sorry, sorry, okay go again go again.”

But last Tuesday, after class, my partner and I descended to the Swing club beneath the lesson and practise our moves for 90mins for the first time. Music was grand (lots of crackly big-band), bar was well stocked (just bottled water for us though), floor was not-too crowded (at least for the first hour. At 9.30 all the two-tone flashy McSpinalots came down from the Intermediate class and, frankly, showed us how it was done).

But the fact is, dear reader, it’s not a dance I could do drunk. Those who followed the link will see it’s fast, furious and entirely dependent on the man (or “leader”) having complete control over every flip, spin, twirl, stomp and kick.

And I thoroughly enjoyed it. My first public dancing since last November, devoid of Billie Punch-A-Tramp juice, and much sweaty, healthy pre-war larks were had.

It turns out dancing isn’t something the sober have to give up. We just have to choose our dances.

That’s it.

Love to all

Richard x

A few words on offensivey type pronunciationy things

14th March 2010

Good whatnot to you all.

How the devil are ye? Did you have sunny McSunshiney bright days on Sunday? I’m, as we speak, sat in the warm fuzzy glow of the afternoon sun at the window of my small flat, tea aside me, grubby net curtains glowing like a radioactive Ready Brek kid. Cold out, as I found when I went strolling’ for milk and paper, but very nice for it.

As some of you won’t care to care, it’s mother’s day.

Good lad that I am, I completely forgot until last night. No card, no flowers, no chocs, no visit, no M&S tokens, no novelty tea-towel, not even a handy gadgety thing from Lakeland. My ever suffering mother had to make do with a phone-call and a promise to pop something in the post.

So we’re talking about mothers today. Two aspects of mothers that I thought might amuse, or alternatively, ring horribly true with you.

Firstly, pronunciation.

There are words in the English Language, that my dear mater cannot utter without putting on, what can only be described really, as a “funny voice.” Three spring to mind immediately for me to offer up.

Example 1. Birmingham.

Now my dear mother, a Hampstead-raised middle-class woman (actually a cockney by birth-locale, not that you’d know from her knick-knacks, Daily Mail subscription or fondness for Rosamund Pilcher). For reasons passing some basic level of understanding, should the subject of Birmingham (the UK midlands city, take note - not the deep South Chuck Berry US version) arise, my mother will always, without failure or exception, screw up her nose a bit and say, in a passable midlands drone: “Bare-me-goom.”

(apologies for the required ugly phonetics, but I hope you get the idea of the pronunciation). She doesn’t do this for other cities, that I know of. Just this one. A non sequitur offered up like an awkward Mike Yarwood on a panel show. No remarks, no commentary, no additional data. Just: “Bare-me-goom.” And a small smile.

In addition, the same voice is employed whenever my mother hears the name “Malcolm.” Now this, I believe, comes from an advert - possibly for Night Nurse - from the 1970s. A poor chap, all bunged up nose (or “dose”) and stripey jim-jams, is called Malcolm and presumably in the course of the advertisement - although frankly I can’t imagine how - he says his name and it comes out - as my mother will attest - like: “Bowcumb.”

Another popular pronunciation comes when my older brother, one time capable rhythm guitarist of Smallville and now upstanding copper, announces he is policing Notting Hill Carnival.

Now, my mother, bless her, not being as big fan of Bob Marley, steel drums, hash or knife crime, isn’t a regular attendee of this particular West London pick pocketing spree. She only knows it from annual TV News reports. Cue Rastafarian hattage and huge Jamaican women dancing to crackle-tannoyed UB40 with policemen’s helmets on. As a consequence of this multi-cultural barrage of Lilt flavoured cliché, she insists on saying the word “carnival” with a slight West Indian twang - “De Carneevaaal”, possibly, adding - for maximum offence - some waggly minstrel jazz hands.

Which moves me to consider other words that the middle-classes of a certain generation will pronounce in a consistently perculiar way. I have done a little research on this and it would appear the following words are culprits of “hilarious” pronunciation change. Most of them being place names. See if any of these are familiar from you or your loved ones.

1. New York. Yes, it appears that it is obligatory to put on a Bronx twang and sneer “Noo Yoik” like you’re chowing down on a hoagie and off to a Dodgers game.

2. Murder. This has two possible comedy interpretations. One, again like above, is a Chandleresque wize-guy gumshoe version: “Moida”.

The other, thanks to I believe the never popular TV show “Taggart” is a broguey Scottish “Murrrrrduh” with a heavy rolled R.

3. South Africa.  Again, it is repeatedly difficult for most to hear this place referred to without immediately repeating it in an ugly gutteral Lethal Weapon 2 Joss Ackland voice so it comes out as “Seth Effrikah.” Hilarious stuff.

4. The Mersey. I think we have Dawn French to thank for this, and the episode of French & Saunders where she appeared as Scousey popstrel “Sonia.” As a consequence, references to the most tiresome of northern character Liver Birds scally river ways always is repeated as: “d’Mairzy!” (see also Calm Down Calm Down etc)

5. Sweden. Obvious, this one. It takes a firm grasp on the vocal chords and decorum not to say “Sveeeeeeeeeden!” whenever this is mentioned, and grin like a twerp.

I would love to know any others you might have. Please sling them on the guestbook page for us all to enjoy and I’ll reprint the best ones in a later edition.

Finally, the other pronunciation issue that is, I am sure, far from confined to my mother however she is an exponent of it on what can almost be an Olympic level.

Sometimes a story involves a place or word or image or culture that, through the rapid movement of political goalposts, means people over 65 aren’t sure what it’s okay to say anymore. Conversations are littered with minefields of mixed-race melting pots that mean a sturdy hardback copy of Debretts or access to Brent Council’s “Dealing With Equality” handbook is required.

As a consequence of this, the older generation have come up with a fascinating method of amending potential Non U hotspots, with the judicious use of adding a “Y.”

I’ll explain.

You will oft’ hear people over 60 (sometimes younger but rarely) describe eating out at a “Japanesey style” restaurant.

Alternatively, they might tell a story where they are served in a supermarket by a “nice sort of Asiany, Indiany lady.”

Décor might be commented on as “having a Chinesey look” to it.

You see? The addition of the Y to any cultural reference softens the edges and shows no offence is meant if, god forbid, that word is now offensive. Feel free to describe the man in question as “a colouredy chap.” We know this doesn’t make you a aid u card carry member of the National Front. You’re just confused about what you can say. Personally, there’s something sort of charming about it. Sort of maddening about it too of course. But I think it’s important to remember it comes from not wanting to cause offence. I recommend you utilize this in your conversations. Why get in a fight when you can describe you ex’s new boyfriend as “a sort of cunty style chap” or “a bit fuckwitty,” if not “an utter motherfuckery style type.”

Happy Mothers Day to mothers everywhere.

Love to all

Rx

A few words on candy stores, anniversaries and every little helping

Hello

Here’s a thought to start with, apropos of frankly nothing at all.

Tesco - everybody’s low low cost favourite store to do all their weekly big shopping and simultaneous representative whipping-boy of the commercial ubiquity that’s destroying  broken Britain -  have self-service tills.

You know the ones. Tetchy temperamental till points where you have to swipe your own barcodes and load your own bags and shove in your own banknotes and gesture in an awkward middle-class way at navy-fleeced staff to come and jab in the magical “yes he’s old enough to buy wine” code.

Handy, aren’t they? In theory, I mean. Letting us look after ourselves, giving us a bit of responsibility.

It’s good for us.

However it occurred to me that this “self-service” booth set-up could also be employed for other cursory services that we do often enough not to need help with.

A medical check-up, for example. Surgery waiting lists and the current absurd situation of not being able to get a simple “I’ve got a cough, give me a prescription” 2 minute appointment would become a thing of the past. Queue up, strip off, wave the bar-codey wand thing over your bits, cough on a slide and, with a bleepity beep and a chatter of till roll, a diagnosis and prescription would come curling out of the handy dispenser slot. I’m certain modern science is capable of such things.  And - Rt Hon Andy Burnham MP, Secretary of State for Health - it needn’t cost the earth, as the current Tesco equipment is already up to the job, so we could combine our Saturday big-shop with a once over health check. Gents can scan the wand over their testicles looking for tumours and growths and, should one be found, the polite voice could calmly say “unexpected item in bagging area.”

It’s the way forward.

How are you all?

Unlike a Premier League footballer with a 17year old’s bot cheeks, I haven’t probed, pushed or penetrated my way in to your inbox for a while. I have, believe it or nay, been doing other things.

Since we spoke, I celebrated my wedding anniversary. A splendid moment, marked with a fresh haircut, an exchange of paper-based gifts and three days in the delightful arms of both my wife and sunny Southwold - charming, peaceful, welcoming, sometimes chilly and popular with many Londoners needing recouperation.

(Southwold, that is. Not my wife’s arms).

The paper gift is a tricky one. Seems anachronistic and olde worldy to adhere to such traditions in a Britain of iPodular Apple Strollamatunes and Ugg boots, but hell - so is marriage I s’pose. Seems a bit contradictory to embrace one and scoff at t’other.

My initial thoughts of a paper gift (a fiver in a card) was, according to those folk I ran it via, by turns “not in the spirit of things,” “liable to get me a fat lip and a cold shoulder,” and “hilarious, go on, go on, I dare you.”

Thanks to those Blokey McLadwipes who remarked that a decree nici is a paper gift that is guaranteed to surprise a wife on a 1st anniversary. A thought, while unspeakable, gave me a small thought to setting up an online business provided Decree Nicis (nicee? Ed) in the medium and format for the relevant year.

WIVES! Tired of your husband after 3 years? A lovely “I’m leaving you and taking the kids, the house and the Smeg fridge and the Wire box set” embossed on leather.

HUSBANDS! Seven year itch? What says “get the fuck out of my life, I’ve knocked up my personal trainer and we’re going to live in Nantwich” like a woollen rug with get the fuck out of my life, I’ve knocked up my personal trainer and we’re going to live in Nantwich crocheted on it? Nothing, that’s what.

Anyhap, thanks to those who sent cards and texts and good wishes.

Other things.

As none of you will care about, my last novel “CONMAN” - which has been called, by none other than amazon.com, “available now” - is due to be released upon the unwitting French population this year. As “con” in France is an unspeakably rude word (much like “soap” and “pop music”) they’ve gone for a different title and it will be plopping onto the shelves of Aquastones (or whatever French bookshops are called) under the name “The Sting.” No copyright problems foreseeable there then.

All of the above puts me in the amusing position of having to liaise with a delightful French translator who - while screamingly capable - has raised a Gallic, Gauloise stained eyebrow at a number of expressions in the book which her Collins Gem hasn’t a fucking clue about. For no reason apart from my own amusement, here below are listed a few expressions that English speaking French people can’t make sense of:

“One ring bedsit”

“Argos"

"failed mocks" ?

"stick a tea on old stick" ?

"you'll get me in schtook"

and bizarrely,

"blue-skying a platformed networking solution"

I know. And they call themselves cultured.

Finally, I was also involved in a conversation about pornography. It started out quite nostalgically as a group of men of a certain age harked back to the days of its pre-interweb elusiveness.

Most of us shared blushing stories of the awkwardness of being only allowed to stay up to watch a Bond movie on a Saturday night (Roger Moore, always Roger Moore) if we got changed into pyjamas, dressing gowns and slippers first.

Now, if there are any parents out there, please be aware of the aching awkward confused excitement that Roger Moore and a bikini clad bad-girl smooching, stroking and caressing on a hotel bed will do to a young boy. Too young to understand why but old enough to, shall we say, react, frankly fleecy jimjams and an M&S robe aren’t even close to being anywhere near enough layering or protection. More awkward, shuffling, half bent, scatter-cushion-over-the-groin manoeuvrings to the other chair, the floor or by the sideboard out of father’s eyeline could not go on. Exhausting.

Next came the hypnotic and dizzying allure of the mail-order catalogue. The nice people at Kays, Freemans or later Grattan and Next - only too aware of the service their oh-so-innocent publications provided the confused adolescents of Britain in the early 80s - colour coded the page corners.

Yellow was always at the back and was the toys (ideal for Christmas daydreams - Action Force Tank!)

Green was often in the middle and meant household.

Yet it was the pink corners that held the most feverish and trembling forbidden excitement. After the Van Daal shoes and before the Fido Dido pyjamas, we all admitted to being dizzied and dry mouthed at the exoticism of the lingerie within. Strange alluring words like “tanga” and “midi” even now can cause me to drop to the floor and writhe with adolescent frustration.

It was a danger zone of course. Flick too far forward in the blood-rush of heady panting nerves and you came face to airbrushed face with smiling grey-haired glamorous grans with terrifying supportwear and flesh-toned plunging balconettes - a turn-off to mirror catching a dinner-lady without her tabard.

The more mature spotty fellow, not sated by the lace, thigh, gusset or stocking of the underwear section (packs of three assorted colours. Thong backed. Thong! Oh my sweet jesus forgive me) might try the big flip forward a thudding inch of page to the sports section (often an orange corner) and catch the beaming smiled wink of the nudie lady on the sun bed. I know buttocks, even from that strange foreshortened angle, were manna from mail-order heaven. Again there were risks. Bad timing and a misjudged page turn caused one to be drooling over exercise bikes. Plus the blue-tinted goggles made the this section a bit of a pervy curio. Unless you had a thing for Sharon Davies, it was worth only a brief glimpse before returning to the bodices and pop-fastening “bodies.”

Actual porn was available in only two places. Cub scout camp and railway sidings.

I don’t think I ever attended a jamboree style dib-dib woggle-fest without some older boy revealing a creased and crumpled copy of Fiesta or Club from the bottom of his stuff sack. And oh the confused heart thundering reaction as it was passed about the night time tent.

Note: What was with that fucking paper? Was ever a colour image printed on anything so thin, flimsy, shiney and prone to creasing? Did Paul Raymond and his publishing ilk not realise that a porn mag you couldn’t read in torch-light was like a rape alarm that doesn’t work in Italy? Torchlight, sunlight, daylight, any form of luminescence resulted in glare and glow and invisible nudie lovelies. Add to that the inevitable crumples and sharp creases? You had to tilt and twist and bend and curl to get any sense of the image.

It was like abusing yourself to the cover of Dark Side Of The Moon.

The internet of course, has done away with such things pretty much. Although the top shelves of newsagents across the land still groan with the weight of cellophaned sauciness, little fingers on pouty lips and ugly headboards.

Porn-site menus and key-word search bars however are the ugliest array of basest, beastly tastes, offerings, genres, peversions, quirks and tableau. You name it, it’s available in every possible combination. POV foot-stockinged asian jewish outdoor threesome money-shot? In all likelihood (and I can’t bring myself to check) it would bring up a jaw-dropping video of just that. Every twisted whim catered for.

One of the chaps I was talking to remarked, when faced with the search options or menu, he felt like a “kid in a candy store.”

There was much round table nodding.

I had to correct him. Internet porn menus are only like candy stores if the kid went into the candy store               in question and said “excuse me, I like sherbet dib dabs and quite enjoy lemon drops. . . but can I have a bit of a look around at the back of the shop? Ideally I want to find something that will make me feel a bit ill and say ‘urgh god jesus christ that’s foul. Urgh, fuckinell who’d want to eat those? Jesus, that‘s just wrong,’ and then tell all my mates what I’ve eaten.”

And on that note, see you in a week or so.

Love to all

Rx

25th March 2010