Constable Scunthorpe

Having had to write this surname all those years, he really had no choice but to join the police. He now lived in Clitheroe, but was born and bred in Cockermouth when his parents moved from Penistone, although he was a lifelong supporter of Arsenal, obviously.

His pet dog was a Shih Tzu, and, as an animal lover he was a vehement campaigner against cock fighting. A keen amateur astronomer in his spare time, of all the celestial bodies he was especially fond of Uranus. An interest in Hollywood films led him to the Hilary Swank fan club, which in turn led him to reconsider the pleasures of the humble mushroom. Yes, of course, the shitake (or shiitake if you prefer) most hit the spot.

Oh, this is rather silly. I could go on, but I left my teenage years behind long, long ago. Sorry.

Actually, no, I take that back. Why apologise? You see, I am constantly having to consider what is appropriate when I am writing, but while out on me bike this afternoon, I concluded that it’s all bollocks. Just words and sounds, and these daft examples started filling up the void in my mind. Who cares? Really?

Language changes over time. We hear this stuff everywhere. Why is everyone so up-tight about it, especially the dreaded C word?

I remember sitting with a girlfriend in a busy pub in Dublin in late 1999. We were invited to share a table with a lawyer, a senior police officer, a journalist and a coroner. Sounds like the set-up for a joke, but this is true. All four were men, and they’d just left the courthouse after a major trial, so were demob happy, I guess. However, we were in the company of other women, all well within earshot. Suffice to say, from the mouths of the four pillars of Dublin society sprang forth plenty of effing and jeffing. Not an eyelid did bat. Perfectly normal. You may recall Sir Bobert of Geldof swearing on the Live Aid broadcast. As an Irishman, he was duty bound to swear. Probably.

My personal language shifted to the coarser end of the scale after I spent a few summers working on building sites, rubbing shoulders with plasterers, bricklayers, painters and electricians. Oh, and the odd plumber. They were the worst offenders, and having once fitted a kitchen, I understand why. Normal working men (and women) using a common language. No problem.

Here, out East, it’s already well after 9pm, so I think I got away with it.

(Couldn’t think of any appropriate images, so here’s a nice pussy.)