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.