Shout!


The other day, I walked past some men doing building work, presumably for the council, when a car sped past us that contained people who clearly knew one of builders in question.

“Do some work, you fat cunt”, shouted one of the car’s passengers to the chap he knew.
“Wanker!” replied the builder.

There’s nothing quite like approaching your job with pride and professionalism.

At least it wasn’t the workman who’d dropped the c-bomb, but I’m not sure his one-word exclamation was much more appropriate. He also bellowed it at the top of his voice after taking a deep breath from the diaphragm; he may not have grasped the etiquette to the situation, but at least his cuss was well-supported.

It’s fair to say people’s standards are slipping. Take the guys in the car, for example. I’m pretty sure I haven’t ever shouted “cunt” out of a moving vehicle - or a stationary one either - in my whole lifetime, and I grew up in Stevenage when I would have had ample opportunity. When I do swear, I like to think it’s in appropriate company; I once said “fuck” in a school where I was teaching, admittedly, but to be fair to me, I’d thought all of the kids had gone home; either way, my boss didn’t receive any complaints.

I guess I should just be thankful the guys weren’t shouting at me; that’s how these things normally play out. I made a bit of a lucky escape. Must be the girdle I wear to disguise any weight gain; I call it Bill Shatner, for no particular reason at all.

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