In honor of Sarah Kelly...
Found this in the Times today (thanks to Deathboy). It is brilliant and made my day, i hope it shall a smile to yours as well. It is also ironic as I just missing Sarah, Adri, Amber, and Bess. So i post this in thier honor.
From the hard 'c' to the sharp 't', it's a sensational word
Martin Samuel
Here's a column that the easily shocked should avoid
We start this morning with a joke. Not just any old joke. My favourite joke. Now some of you may find it offensive. Actually, most of you will find it offensive. In fact, if you are at all the sort of person who writes to the editors of national newspapers complaining about declining standards in the modern media, I would advise you to look away now. Come to think of it, maybe it is best if you all just stopped reading right away before anybody gets hurt. I’m sure David and Libby have fascinating things to say elsewhere on these pages. And look at the cartoon, how funny is that?
Me? I’m writing about a word. Not a nice word, but a good word. I happen to think one of the best words. You probably won’t agree. And it’s going to be appearing a lot in the next few sentences. So, if you are at all the sort of sensitive person described in this preamble, do not say you were not warned.
There are two guys talking. The first one says: “You know, the day I met you, I thought you were a c***. And every time we’ve met since I thought you were a c***. And it can’t just be me, because everyone who’s ever met you thinks you are a c***, and probably everyone who will ever meet you will think you’re a c***. In fact, you’ve got to be the second-biggest c*** in the world.”
The second guy thinks about this for a while. “So the day you met me you thought I was a c***?” “Yep.” “And every day since you’ve thought I was a . . .” “Right.” “And everyone I’ve ever met thinks I’m a . . .” “You got it.” “And everyone I will ever meet will think I’m a . . .” “Uh-huh.” “So how comes,” he says, triumphantly, “I’m only the second biggest c*** in the world?” The first guy looks at him with total contempt. “Because you’re a c***,” he says.
Peter Cook wrote that. And if he had written that, and only that, in his entire life, I’d still think he was a genius. When you tell it, from the sublime shock of its set-up, to wringing every last drop of emphasis from that punch-line, you know you are crossing the final frontier. And it’s a word. We are resigned to war, lies, corruption and incompetence, hypocrisy and despair; but a word - that word - still has the power to provoke fury. For proof, read the Sunday papers.
“The BBC came under new fire last night after it announced plans for a £200,000 TV documentary devoted to the most offensive word in the English language. The programme, tentatively titled I Love The C-Word . . .”
There followed several paragraphs of pomposity from the Shadow Culture Secretary, Hugo Swire, and John Whittingdale, chairman of the Commons Culture Select Committee, disapproving of a programme that had not even been made. And you know what I thought? Of course, you know what I thought. I think it quite a lot lately. I think it so much that I am seriously worried about the word drifting into the mainstream because it is so apposite to modern times.
I used to collect background material and make notes and write salient points and themes and areas for debate. Now, mostly, I’ve got one newspaper cutting with four letters scrawled at the top of it and the rest is window-dressing. When John Reid panics the nation by telling us that it is highly likely we will be under attack from terrorists in the build-up to Christmas and absolutely nothing happens, and I recall that this is the same man who, as Defence Minister, justified dispatching more British troops to a hellish, lawless region of Afghanistan by glibly suggesting they would probably leave without a bullet being fired, I no longer think of a thousand words. I think of one.
It is an old word, its etymology disputed but probably proto-Germanic (kunton, becoming kunta in old Norse). It appears several times in Chaucer (queynte) and in Pepys (cunny) and Shakespeare played around with it in Hamlet - the “country matters” joke in Act III, scene 2. As long ago as 1230 it formed part of a street name in the “Stews” area of Southwark, London, in which prostitutes stood.
Gropecuntelane is now Milton Street. Grape Lane in York enjoys the same history. So it has been around the block, only becoming truly taboo around 1795, the date at which it disappears from all main English dictionaries, until reappearing in Webster’s in 1961.
So why is it good? It has a hard “c” and a sharp “t”, making it short and explosive and lending power, drama and, wielded correctly, humour. A few years ago, I was eating at one of Marco Pierre White’s restaurants. There was something of a commotion. A party, and one lady in particular, appeared very unhappy with the behaviour and attitude of the maître d’. Espying the owner dining quietly with a friend in the corner, she began assailing him loudly and forcibly (“Marco? What kind of a poofy name is that?” is remembered with special fondness.) At the end of this highly inventive foul-mouthed tirade, the customer finished with what she clearly believed to be an irrefutable allegation. “That man,” she said, pointing at the maître d’, “is a complete and utter c***!”
It is the most spectacular rendition I have ever heard, each syllable given a full aerobic workout down to the resounding “tuh” at the end. And then, addressing the remaining open-mouthed (but, secretly, loving it) patrons she strode towards the door with an unlikely claim. “And that is not a word I use lightly,” she said.
Nor should it be. For deep down, I hope the moral guardians of Britain get their way and continue to be made furious. I hope the politicians pontificate, and the faint-hearted reach for the smelling salts. I hope we veer from acceptance and smug writers continue to denounce its use as evidence of a limited vocabulary. Because, the way I see this, you have the entire English language at your disposal, its wonderful richness, its beautiful multifariousness. And so do I. And then I have c***. So I’ve got one more word than you.
From the hard 'c' to the sharp 't', it's a sensational word
Martin Samuel
Here's a column that the easily shocked should avoid
We start this morning with a joke. Not just any old joke. My favourite joke. Now some of you may find it offensive. Actually, most of you will find it offensive. In fact, if you are at all the sort of person who writes to the editors of national newspapers complaining about declining standards in the modern media, I would advise you to look away now. Come to think of it, maybe it is best if you all just stopped reading right away before anybody gets hurt. I’m sure David and Libby have fascinating things to say elsewhere on these pages. And look at the cartoon, how funny is that?
Me? I’m writing about a word. Not a nice word, but a good word. I happen to think one of the best words. You probably won’t agree. And it’s going to be appearing a lot in the next few sentences. So, if you are at all the sort of sensitive person described in this preamble, do not say you were not warned.
There are two guys talking. The first one says: “You know, the day I met you, I thought you were a c***. And every time we’ve met since I thought you were a c***. And it can’t just be me, because everyone who’s ever met you thinks you are a c***, and probably everyone who will ever meet you will think you’re a c***. In fact, you’ve got to be the second-biggest c*** in the world.”
The second guy thinks about this for a while. “So the day you met me you thought I was a c***?” “Yep.” “And every day since you’ve thought I was a . . .” “Right.” “And everyone I’ve ever met thinks I’m a . . .” “You got it.” “And everyone I will ever meet will think I’m a . . .” “Uh-huh.” “So how comes,” he says, triumphantly, “I’m only the second biggest c*** in the world?” The first guy looks at him with total contempt. “Because you’re a c***,” he says.
Peter Cook wrote that. And if he had written that, and only that, in his entire life, I’d still think he was a genius. When you tell it, from the sublime shock of its set-up, to wringing every last drop of emphasis from that punch-line, you know you are crossing the final frontier. And it’s a word. We are resigned to war, lies, corruption and incompetence, hypocrisy and despair; but a word - that word - still has the power to provoke fury. For proof, read the Sunday papers.
“The BBC came under new fire last night after it announced plans for a £200,000 TV documentary devoted to the most offensive word in the English language. The programme, tentatively titled I Love The C-Word . . .”
There followed several paragraphs of pomposity from the Shadow Culture Secretary, Hugo Swire, and John Whittingdale, chairman of the Commons Culture Select Committee, disapproving of a programme that had not even been made. And you know what I thought? Of course, you know what I thought. I think it quite a lot lately. I think it so much that I am seriously worried about the word drifting into the mainstream because it is so apposite to modern times.
I used to collect background material and make notes and write salient points and themes and areas for debate. Now, mostly, I’ve got one newspaper cutting with four letters scrawled at the top of it and the rest is window-dressing. When John Reid panics the nation by telling us that it is highly likely we will be under attack from terrorists in the build-up to Christmas and absolutely nothing happens, and I recall that this is the same man who, as Defence Minister, justified dispatching more British troops to a hellish, lawless region of Afghanistan by glibly suggesting they would probably leave without a bullet being fired, I no longer think of a thousand words. I think of one.
It is an old word, its etymology disputed but probably proto-Germanic (kunton, becoming kunta in old Norse). It appears several times in Chaucer (queynte) and in Pepys (cunny) and Shakespeare played around with it in Hamlet - the “country matters” joke in Act III, scene 2. As long ago as 1230 it formed part of a street name in the “Stews” area of Southwark, London, in which prostitutes stood.
Gropecuntelane is now Milton Street. Grape Lane in York enjoys the same history. So it has been around the block, only becoming truly taboo around 1795, the date at which it disappears from all main English dictionaries, until reappearing in Webster’s in 1961.
So why is it good? It has a hard “c” and a sharp “t”, making it short and explosive and lending power, drama and, wielded correctly, humour. A few years ago, I was eating at one of Marco Pierre White’s restaurants. There was something of a commotion. A party, and one lady in particular, appeared very unhappy with the behaviour and attitude of the maître d’. Espying the owner dining quietly with a friend in the corner, she began assailing him loudly and forcibly (“Marco? What kind of a poofy name is that?” is remembered with special fondness.) At the end of this highly inventive foul-mouthed tirade, the customer finished with what she clearly believed to be an irrefutable allegation. “That man,” she said, pointing at the maître d’, “is a complete and utter c***!”
It is the most spectacular rendition I have ever heard, each syllable given a full aerobic workout down to the resounding “tuh” at the end. And then, addressing the remaining open-mouthed (but, secretly, loving it) patrons she strode towards the door with an unlikely claim. “And that is not a word I use lightly,” she said.
Nor should it be. For deep down, I hope the moral guardians of Britain get their way and continue to be made furious. I hope the politicians pontificate, and the faint-hearted reach for the smelling salts. I hope we veer from acceptance and smug writers continue to denounce its use as evidence of a limited vocabulary. Because, the way I see this, you have the entire English language at your disposal, its wonderful richness, its beautiful multifariousness. And so do I. And then I have c***. So I’ve got one more word than you.