Purveyor of Bollocks to the Crowned Heads of Europe
Friday, 24 January 2014
I'm going to tell you about a little game which was invented by me and one other, after sitting with someone who was looking through the T.V. listings for the evening, and could not find anything he was remotely interested in watching.
There is a warning attached to this post, and that is that if you are offended by the gratuitous use of the 'C' word, then go away now. The whole game (a very simple one) depends on it.
Still with me? Right. My weary friend read the titles of the forthcoming programs and films out loud, changing one word in their titles to express his disgust or disappointment in what was on offer. It went something like this:
8.30 - The Cunts Roadshow.
9.00 - The Cunts of Navarrone.
9.30 - I'm a Cunt, get me out of here.
10.00 - Cunts at Ten.
Pretty soon, we were rolling around, helpless with laughter as we thought of program titles which were not actually listed that night. My personal favourite was, 'One Man and his Cunt'.
I explained the basic principle of this game to a theatre director friend of mine, and he introduced it to some of the more broad-minded of his colleagues and associates in a way that it could be played by the cognoscenti at important dinner parties without fear of upsetting anyone who was not in on the secret.
To do this, you simply say the title as it really is, then let those who are in on the joke mentally put the word 'cunt' in whatever place they think it most appropriate. This adds even more hilarity to the game, because about half of the guests do not understand why the mere mention of 'One Man and his Dog' causes such fits of laughter.
Being a creative and talented sort of bloke, the theatre director quickly realised that the game could be used with all sorts of other things than just film and T.V. so after a few glasses of wine, he would instigate it with just one word, denoting the category, thus:
There would then follow about an hour or two of sporadic laughter as someone thought of a title, sometimes interrupting the ordinary conversation between innocents by saying something like, 'My Struggle', or 'Far From the Madding Crowd'. It is - I am told - a great way to spice up a boring dinner party.
I was listening to The Archers last night (as we always do) and once again, H.I. and me were struck by the appalling behaviour of just about every character in Ambridge, wondering who wrote the script and wondering why everyone has to behave so badly toward each other.
You may not follow The Archers - I often wonder why I do - but right now, the ghastly old woman Peggy has brought her entire family together to tell them she is leaving the lot in her will to the equally ghastly Tom, her grandson, and cutting out Tom's father - who desperately needs the money - altogether, in his favour.
The Grundy brothers (above) are at each other's throats as usual, and one of them has shot the other's dog, so the other is deliberately upsetting his young blood son who is living with his brother and his equally ghastly wife, by suggesting the replacement puppy is about to be poisoned by his step-father.
Helen is knocking-off a deeply unpleasant farm manager who was just horrid to his wife in order to get her out of the picture. I need not even mention Matt and Lydia, Linda Snell or any of the other sociopathic characters who spend their entire time trying to outwit, insult or exploit each other during their waking hours in that part of Borsetshire.
Every evening at 7.15 when 'Barwick Green' plays a second time, H.I. and me look at each other in mild disbelief and say, "They're all a bunch of cunts!"