Appropriate language.

I received an adverse comment on my blog “Listen, can you hear them? It’s the French laughing their bollocks-off” they objected to “Up-yours you froggy bastards” and “What a f#cking farce, no wonder the French are chuckling”. Out of context the words might appear offencive, but read the blog and I hope you agree the phrases were appropriate.

What is regarded acceptable or unacceptable language is continually changing, even more so over the last 60 years. Which incidentally is how long this Grumpy Old Fart has been experiencing the joys of life. In Great Britain, as in most countries: print, radio and films were strictly censured. Then along came television.

Regular TV broadcasting started in 1936, but before it could get into its stride along came World War 2. How things have changed, now war is daily brought into our living rooms in all its gory details. But in 1939 the BBC closed down its television service. Television broadcasting started again after the war, in 1946 in the USA. But in those early days it was still the media for the rich. It was not until the early 1950s’ with the start of mass production of TV sets that it became affordable for the masses.

There we sat in front of our 9inch black and white sets. You could buy a magnifying glass to place in front of the screen; it didn’t enlarge the picture but it did effectively distort the image. Oh what exciting days those were - with broadcasts starting at 7p.m.It was thought it would have been too disruptive to broadcast earlier. All broadcasts were live, coming from two studios, the scenery had to be changed between shows. To avoid a blank screen interludes were shown. The image of two films is scared onto my memory. A horse drawn plough endlessly ploughing a field, the other was a potter making a pot - the clay thrown onto the wheel his fingers forming the wet squelche clay. If complicated scenery had to be set-up, the potter’s film was repeated and repeated and repeated. And there we sat, in bored brain-dead expectation “surely the show will start soon”. They had the technology to show films, so why didn’t they schedule short films between shows? They didn’t have to. With only one TV channel we were a captive audience, until ITV burst on the scene in 1955.

Fifty years ago and censorship was strictly applied. Programs were introduced by black-tied dinner jacketed plumb mouthed upper middle class sounding continuity announcers. The women announcers looked as if they were clutching the cheeks of their arse together to prevent a fart escaping. The slightest hint of sex, blasphemy or the mildest of obscenities and the pages of next days newspapers would be screaming outrage. And then there was self-appointed God’s moral guardian on Earth, Mary Whitehouse with her “Clean Up TV” campaigns.

But there was one thing, that now we think totally unacceptable, was in those days common fare on TV - racism. In the 50s’ and 60s’ the Great was vanishing from Great Britain, with the progressive loss of its Empire. “How can those stupid blacks in Africa govern themselves? You must be joking”. Meanwhile back in the UK more and more immigrants were coming from, what was euphemistically called the New Commonwealth, i.e. they were black. The white populace felt threatened. They had to somehow retaliate and so it became perfectly acceptable to make racist jokes. Situation comedy series had to have a black or Indian character who was the butt for the jokes. Inevitably they were servile and not to bright. From the mid 60’s to the 70s’, “Till Death Us Do Part” was the most popular TV comedy. Each week the foul mouthed cockney racist misogynist Alf Garnett ranted his anti-black male chauvinist diatribes, while his lazy layabout scouse son-in-law (played by Anthony Booth). egged him on. Booth? Yes father of Cherie Booth wife of Tony Blair our great and saintly Prime Minister.

By the 1970s Mary Whitehouse had lost the battle for British morals. The end started in 1959 with the passing of the The Obscene Publications Act which allowed publishers to escape conviction if they could show that the work was of literary merit. A year later Penguin tested the law when it published D.H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover, containing not only steamy descriptions of love acts, but shock horror the f#ck and c#nt words - am I a prude or not, using # instead of “u”. Penquin won the case and the floodgates were opened allowing the bookshelves to be filled with profanities.

By the start of the twenty-first century obscenity was as common an occurrence in print and television as it was on the street. Newspapers are the only media, which in the main, have remained a four letter word free zone, except when it is germane to the story being reported.

Finally we come to the newest form of communication, blogs - which with the exception of China and Korea is censorship free. The language used reflects the code of conduct of the blogger. This ranges from the libertarian to the prudish. I hear one of the most popular blogs is posted by a young lady providing detailed accounts of her sexual exploits.

As for me, my blogs do contain f#ck but never a c***- I’m not a prude, more a little boy giggling at seeing a dirty word in print.

Eastern Religion, middle aged hippies and things best not mentioned

Jack next door has got Religion. Is that the correct expression - got religion?

Well he always felt frustrated on account of being deprived. He joined the army straight from school. So in the 1960’s while everyone was discovering drug, sex and Rock & Roll, Jack was marching up and down the parade ground.

On his 63 birthday he discovered Eastern Religion. Got his wife to make him a Kaftans, borrowed sandals from me - I’d bought on a holiday to Algeria. Turned vegetarian, which isn‘t too bad.

In fact I’ve benefited from him becoming a veggie. His wife had to buy a Cook Book, which my wife has borrowed. Chickpeas and spinach, surprisingly nicer than it looks or sounds. But I have to be careful what I tell the wife.

Is it a woman’s thing? You must never make the mistake of telling them you like something they’ve cooked. Fell into that trap with my mother. Wanted to get into her good books so told her I liked the liver, onions and chips we had just eaten. From then on, every Tuesday we had liver, onions and chips. The excuses Family members thought up to eat out on Tuesdays. The wife’s the same, let slip “that was nice”, and you can set your watch; we will get, it if we are lucky only, twice a week.

Though I must say, my wife really is a good cook, except - there’s always an except! She doesn’t know when to stop.

She experiments, trying this and that recipe until its perfect. But she isn’t contented with perfect she has to continue to try to improve. It took months adjusting the mixture, gas setting cooking time until she produced the perfect scone. But she had to go that little bit to far, substituting black olives for sultanas was not a good idea. I ask her “why olives”, she said “they looked like fat sultanas”.

She also has “big eye”. When she cooks she cooks in quantity. She makes stew, and we have stew for the next three days.

Back to Jack, Kaftan and sandals, he’s also let his hair grow long. How can I describe it? Previously he was bald with stubble round the edges. Now he looks as if he is wearing a hairy fringe thing (now what were they called, they were tied around beds, ruffles or something?). Why do old men (particularly ex-pop stars) think they look “Cool” by having straggly long hair?

Jack, he’s also taken up meditation, but his wife will not let him do it in the house. She had a bit of a shock, being woken at 4 am by a cacophony of fire-alarms - smoky incense sticks.

Why 4 am? It’s supposed to be the best time to communicate with the unknown. Don’t know about that. All I know, it’s the time I normally have to get up for a pee!

We told Jack he can use our garden shed to do his meditation. Useful, I can now nip into the shed for a quick drag on a fag (the UK meaning of the word - cigarette!!!), without the wife being able to smell the smoke.

He wants me to take up meditation. Bit frightening - what if it makes me all piece and love and no grumpiness!

Visit to Post Office

You miserable lot! Here I am on my death bed, and not a bunch of grapes from one of you. Not even a pip. Thanks very much, I don’t think!!!!

Don’t tell me I’ve heard all the excuses before. You couldn’t get near the fruit stall for all the old age pensioners and their shopping trolleys.

Really been suffering, hallucinations had a terrible vision of Gordon Brown having sex - like a slug slithering over a tomato. Grateful it wasn’t Margaret Beckett, those teeth nibbling on a carrot.

Sunday morning, temperature, not up to having my Sunday morning cuddle. “Up”, at my age, that word gives an inaccurate description irrespective of my temperature. But its nice to give the wife a cuddle on a Sunday morning, keeps her happy. And when she’s happy she lets me use her computer. Everything is hers, until it breaks down and I have to pay to replace it.

Hope I’m better by tomorrow; have to go to the Post Office. Before I would say “nipping to the Post Office”. But I can’t nip anymore since they closed the two sub-post offices close to us. Now it’s a case of organising an expedition to the main Post Office in town. Main Post Office - that’s a laugh. The Old Post Office building is now a wine bar, the Post Office is now in a shed!!

Expedition is the correct word - it’s like Scott going to the Antarctic. There’s the journey there for a start. Then you got to take all the camping gear and provisions you will need for the days you spend in the queue. Last time I was there, there were so many Policemen; I thought I had walked into a robbery. Turned out the woman at the front of the queue had been there for four days and her daughter had reported her missing.

What happens when you finally get served? Asked for a book of stamps. Woman behind the counter asked if I was going on holiday. Thought “how nice and polite, what a change an assistant who is pleasant”. Wrong, it turned out she wanted to sell me travel insurance. When I told her I wasn’t going anywhere, she asked if I had thought to switching to Post Offices Telephones. I only wanted a book of second class stamps (second class- I’m not going to pay more for them to lose my letters). Well I think they get lost - I never get replies to all my letters of complaint.

(Tip don’t send e-mail complaints they only have to hit the delete button. Always send a letter, that way they have to go to all the trouble of opening it before throwing it in the bin. Also if the company has a free mail address use that - that way you save on stamps and they pay for your letter - at least you get a little bit of revenge).

Now what was I going to say? It’s gone clean out of my head. Perhaps I’ll remember latter.