In which UberGrumpy's kids impress him mightily with their vast arsenal of juicy cussin' words.
A pub in Greenwich; a pleasant dinner with the kids. It’s a traditional family meal, i.e., I am paying.
The wine and conversation flow freely. We get around to TV. I have been watching Charlie Brooker's jolly good "Black Mirror" series recently. What does everyone think? We all share a positive opinion, which is a relief, as strong opinions abound in this family, and sparks can fly. For now, familial harmony reigns.
Until, that is, I casually mention that I think the overwhelmingly sweary dialogue often gets in the way of the plot.
Warning: from now on this post, necessarily, turns a bit blue. To save your blushes, I substitute the words “Farage” and “Corbyn” for you-know-what.
“For Farage’s sake,” pipes up no.1 daughter. “Your generation. Honestly. We don’t even notice the odd Farage. Brooker may be a bit of a Corbyn, but he writes a Faraging good story, so who cares if the language gets a bit colourful? I think I’ll have the Chateaubriand1.”
No.2 son chimes in. “Too Faraging right. You guys are Faragewits in this department. Get into the 21st century, and catch up with the rest of the Faraging world, I say. Let’s have some more wine.” (It’s a snip at £32 a bottle).
And now, the plot thickens; we introduce euphemisms "sherbet" and "Crunchie" for their scatological four-letter cousins.
“Don’t be a sherbethead,” retorts no. 1 son to no. 2 son. “That’s a load of Faraging Crunchie. It’s not your generation, it’s just those two.” He gives us some advice. “You should stop reading the Faraging Daily Mail for a start. It’s written by Corbyns, and is a pile of Crunchie and full of bullsherbet. Try the foie gras, it’s Faraging splendid.”
“Neither of us have ever read the Daily Mail, and watch your language,” points out Mrs G, sensitive to the wide-eyed old ladies at the next table, but her voice is lost in the din of battle.
Say hello to "Twiglet", standing in for a word which begins like, well, Twiglet, and rhymes with flat.
No. 2 son defends himself, and us, after a fashion. “Sherbethead yourself, Twigletfeatures. Everyone over the age of twenty-seven has their head up their arsenic2. It’s not their fault, it’s just how they were brought up, the poor Twiglets. Thatcher’s3 children.”
They’re right of course. We are hopelessly out of date. The bill comes, and it seems quite dear. We’re in a pub. Should I add a tip?
No. 1 daughter heartily slaps me on the back. “Of course you should,” she advises. “Get with it, Dad. This isn’t Faraging 1983.”
Quite.
1 - OK, this is not true. She’s a vegetarian.
2 - Take a wild guess.
3 - This is not a cussword, this is someone’s name.
