The English language is a wonderful thing. The way in which certain words have multiple meanings to add confusion to a piece of text is remarkable, and typically British. There are some words which we use as part of our day to day language which can also be used in an inflammatory way. For example, we can smoke a ‘fag’ or eat a ‘faggot’, but we can also use those words as terms for a homosexual male. These are the words I will be talking about today, the so called ‘naughty words’ (if you’re 5).
As this post is all about swearing I feel I should ease you in, after all some of you don’t know me and I don’t want to get off on the wrong fucking foot. So let’s start with the sort of words you’ve probably referred to kids as. No, I don’t mean words like ‘sexy’ (although I have heard people refer to their kids as sexy, which scares me beyond belief), I’m talking about those curse words you use when your kids are simply pissing you off. Words like ‘sod’ or ‘bugger’ are very nice words to use around your children except for the fact you’re calling your children ass fuckers. Don’t believe me, well do a bit of research into the act of buggery (I’m sure there will be some interesting videos online) or the exploits of those buggered souls at Sodom in the Old Testament. Yep, both of those words refer quite bluntly to the act of anal fornication, yet for some reason they’re suddenly accepted for this use as well.
Ass fucker is a pretty strong term which is why we use these supposedly nicer words, but surely there are better terms we can use for our brats. Well, sticking with this area of the body, would it be nicer to call your child a vagina? Well, yeah, after all ‘vagina’ is the official word for female genitalia, and scientific words are in no way swear words (see Uranus for proof – stop giggling at the back). The alternative words for vagina aren’t as acceptable though. For some reason it’s not right to call children ‘cunts’, or so I found out when I fired from my job as a children’s TV presenter (apparently they prefer it if we do those things out of working hours). So what does that leave us with? Pussy? That only really applies if they are somehow catlike, and I feel picking the right swearword is the least of your concerns if your child has a tail and whiskers.
Seeing as I just touched on vaginas I feel it’s only right that I touch on penises too (oo-er). So, why is it that we use terms like ‘prick’, ‘dick’ and ‘cock’ to describe male genitalia quite openly, yet words like ‘pussy’, ‘twat’ and ‘cunt’ are still taboo? When you think about there’s no real difference, they’re just slang terms for genitalia, the only difference is that one is for a male, the other for a female. This is one of those things that has always amazed me about the English language by the way. How do we actually dictate which words become socially acceptable and which will make you a social pariah if you utter them in public? I’m not 100% certain on this but I get the feeling Simon Cowell is to blame. There’s just something about the talentless wanker that makes me think he was bullied a lot in school, and as a result he took all the terms that were flung his way and made them inappropriate (side note – the shit he churns out on X Factor is retaliation for all the shit that was flung at him in school as well).
The list of curse words and their ridiculous meanings just keeps growing. We use the word ‘fuck’ or its derivatives as filler words, just because we have nothing better to say. We refer to daily tasks in as offensive a way as possible. We are a nation of people with undiagnosed tourettes and we try our hardest to find ways to justify our swearing. How long until Saturday nights are filled with F*** Factor, a show in which potty mouthed judges (along with Mr. Cowell) pick the words we can’t say in the following year? Well, based on the way we’re going it’d be a great idea and a money spinner for ITV (your welcome, cunts). So, to prevent ITV from doing this I suggest we all stop complaining about curse words and accept them into the English language, after all they are just words. If you don’t want to do that, fuck you.
Carl Parmenter is a cunning linguist and expert swearer who rates Rachel Riley and Susie Dent in his Top 10 women to spend a weekend with (for different reasons). Read his blog here.
Well here we are, the 2012 Whitell Awards. The night with all the glitz and glamour of Hollywood, but without the people attending. Winning a ‘Whitell’ is seen by some as the most coveted of awards, akin to winning an Oscar, having your first child, or discovering that there are in fact sixteen mini kievs in your traditionally fifteen-full bag.
2012 has been an eventful year for yours truly. The ending of a long term relationship was one of the low points of the year, but I really think I’ve learnt a lot about myself. It was not as good as 2010 (my favourite ever year) or even last year, but it was action-packed, eventful and emotional. I am writing this earlier than I anticipated, as I wanted to make sure you get the chance to read it just in case the four horsemen arrive this Friday. More on that later. On with the awards.
Discovery of the Year:
Jacket Potatoes – 2012 was the year I finally discovered the value of the jacket potato. In previous years I have considered Jacket to be the older, uglier sister of the potato family. Nothing compared to the consistently beautiful Mash, and not a patch on the filthy, dirty, little slut that is Roast. Even Hash Brown, the fried cousin has enjoyed many a romp with my tastebuds. But not Jacket. So this year I decided to get drunk and experiment with the shy, frumpy one in the family. I was not disappointed. Cover her in cheese, massage oil into her skin and she’ll purr like a motherfucker. Jacket potato, I salute you.
Moment of the Year:
Surviving a Quad Biking Accident – Back in March I went to the sunny land of Egypt and became a hit with foreign children. Not in a Jimmy Savile way. In a ‘Mutter, who ist das Englisch man with the white trousers and cornrows who knows all the dance routines’ kind of way. During this holiday, I decided to be adventurous and go quad biking. I’m not a man who can drive, or a man who has even attempted to learn how to do so. After an hour of quad biking, I decided I was getting the hang of it. Then I realised that I was going too fast and didn’t have any instinct for braking. So I flipped the entire quad bike over after crashing into the bike in front. I actually thought I was going to die. The quad bike landed on top of me, and all I could think of is ‘shit, those are designer prescription sunglasses’ and emerged from the crash to rescue my visual aids. They were fine. At that point I realised I still had all my limbs and that I should never be in charge of a vehicle again. I then walked away like a badass with only minor injuries. And cornrows. Did I mention the cornrows?
Night Out of the Year:
25th Birthday Icon Fancy Dress Pub Crawl – This night had it all. Fancy dress, an early start, appearances from all my favourite people, a moment where I fell asleep in Cuba only to find my second wind and carry on, and a massive cigar. All this, whilst covered in fake tan, wearing clip-on earrings and with a truly iconic T-Shirt. I would like to thank everyone who made it out on that night and allowed it be Night of the Year 2012, with no nights in the subsequent 11 months able to usurp it from its throne.
Photo of the Year:
Self-explanatory really. In fact this leads me to…
Villain of the Year:
Thomas Stembridge – Fresh out of the studio having recorded the above abomination, Tom Stembridge made himself a recluse for 2012. Cooking, yes, cooking his phone on what must have been the only sunny day we have had this year, he made it his mission to become absolutely isolated from the world of social interaction. John Donne said ‘no man is an island’, but Donne clearly hadn’t met Tom. Tom is the human equivalent of Greenland. Remote, isolated and an autonomous region of Denmark. Worse still, when Stembridge does actually turn up, he wreaks havoc; introducing ridiculous topics from discussion, drinking until you can’t see your fingers and then disappears into nothingness, not to be heard from until his liver has recharged. Thomas Elizabeth Stembridge, as Villain of the Year I salute you, and I expect nothing less in 2013.
Rear of the Year:
Des Bennett – All I can say is if you had seen her on Saturday night you’d agree this was a pretty easy decision to make. Des, congratulations for managing to be so consistently gorgeous for the entirety of 2012, and long may it continue.
Hero of the Year:
Martyn Ley: This was a tough one. There have been some true heroes in my life this year but in the end I’ve opted for the perennially understanding Martyn Ley. Whether it has been through music, a brief chat in the corridor at work, some sound advice through the medium of text messaging or any other interaction, Mart has been there. He’s had his own stuff to deal with, but he’s always made time for his friends, and that’s why he deserves this award. Plus, he has impeccable taste in fashion, a killer guitar solo and an interest in Gillian Anderson that led us into a very rum-filled evening. I’d like to personally thank Mart for his help in 2012, and wish him the best for 2013.
So there we have it, the 2012 Whitell Awards. Thanks for reading, and a big congratulations to the winners. I wish all of you the very best in 2013, but make sure you have too much fun over the festive period first. Stand by for a very special recorded apocalypse message from me, very soon…
Missing: A leap year that was supposed to follow 2011. Claims to be the bringer of doom.
Seriously, what happened to this year? Before I even got the chance to practise writing the date with a twelve at the end (we all practise this, right?) I look up and it’s November. The only reason I know this is because everyone has a moustache. If they didn’t it would just fade into the blurred obscurity of the other ten months we’ve had so far. Maybe that’s why Movember was invented. To preserve the identity of the eleventh month of the year. That’s right cancer, you’re just a cover story.
I know that time is perceived to be quicker as we get older but this is god-damn ridiculous! When I’m 55 (I’ll never make it) I don’t want to turn around and say ‘Jesus Christ, that was a bloody good one night stand’ and be referring to a three month relationship. Sex is short enough as it is. When people in their 70s get busy, it must be about as meaningful as licking a stamp. No wonder they have problems with erections. I’m going to stop here.
This has all left we wondering if we ever get our time back? When we die do we get a chance to revisit the moments in our lives that went by too quickly? Like some kind of kickass level select feature. I know where I’m going. I’ve written down important dates just in case. If you see me looking for a pen you know I’m having a good time. If I’m not, you should probably raise your game a bit, Tom Stembridge. It’s nice to think that there is something after death. The amount of chemical and electrical energy released by the brain at the point of death suggests something might happen. I don’t want to just think of me hanging there in my socks with only the Dyson for company for the rest of eternity. There must be something more. Wait, am I getting deep? On the internet? No, can’t be!
So, just to sum up, this year has gone by really quickly, and I am not an asphyxiophile. I’m off to listen to INXS. Here’s a picture of a horse!
Dear Mr Lewis,
I have never frequented one of your retail establishments. I’m sure you do nice stuff. However, I’m not what you would call a ‘normal’ dresser, so I have no need for things like jumpers. I hear you sell things like furniture and I think that’s really swell. People always need chairs.
However, this is not the subject of my letter. No, I am writing to you because of this man:
This man was born in around 4BC (talk about a slight oversight in the calendar department). His birthday, despite nobody knowing when it actually was, has become an annual celebration called ‘Christmas’. Maybe you’ve heard of it. It takes place on December 25th.
That’s right. December 25th. Christmas Day. Not November. Christmas DAY.
I know I should be writing a stern letter to Mr Cola, as I realise you were not the first to capitalise on the commercial appeal of the most magic time of the year. But do you know why I’m writing to you? Not only do I love Christmas, but I happen to love music too.
I take it you’re not a fan of music. If you were, why on Earth would you make it a habit of over-extending the Christmas period and destroying good music in the process in your advertising?
Last year you basically raped Morrissey. Nobody knows if Morrissey would have actually enjoyed the shafting you gave him or not, maybe you told him you’d stop world sausages and he went along with it; I didn’t enjoy being exposed to it. This year you are going to be cornering Holly Johnson of Frankie Goes to Hollywood fame in an alley and showing him a different Power of Love.
I’m here to beg you to stop this. Stop it now. I cry every time Christmas spills out of December, for too much Christmas ruins the magic. But then when I’m forced to hear you and your overwrought covers of classic songs sung by some waifer-thinly voiced folk singer that are designed to make housewives and general saddos cry and then go out and buy three more tins of Roses; it makes me feel physically sick. And the only time I should feel sick at Christmas is when I’ve devoured an entire pyramid of Ferrero Rochers.
By all means advertise. By all means advertise for Christmas. In December. But for the love of God please don’t subject us to songs that are only there to serve as a reminder that we live in a world where consumerism ruins everything and good music is hard to find. It’s a sad enough place that we live in. My Mum won’t even buy me a fur coat for Christmas. Actually, do you do fur coats?
Dan Whitell (not a 16-year old female singer doing a shit Dan Whitell cover)