When I was eleven or twelve some knacker walked up to me on the street, said something in Cant that I didn't understand, and punched me in the stomach. It was ideal, really: it didn't hurt very much but it allowed me not to feel bad about referring to Travellers as 'knackers', and to lustily join in with every badmouthing of them that I was every privy to. I learned quickly that, despite everyone and their dog understanding the term to be pejorative, it was nearly always completely socially accepted. Usage in front of teachers and other adults would, at worst, be met with a mild frown - the same one you might get if you said 'crap'.
I don't know how many times it took being punched by settled people for me to write that one childish tap in the gut off as part of life, rather than symbolic of the values of an entire ethnicity. I don't know exactly when I grew out of using the term 'knackers' (I suspect it was shamefully recently), but I did.
Last Saturday I read a piece in the Irish Times about the rugby players Denis Leamy and Rory Best. A puff piece, in fact, that had little to do with sport and a lot to do with the fact that the aforementioned are now 'Bushmill Brothers' (there's a remarkably similar piece in The Examiner - it seems that the edict from the marketing people was to use words like 'brothers' and 'bond' prominently, and mention the brand name at least once. Tacky. One can only hope Messrs. Thornley and Lewis got a nice case of whiskey or five for their trouble). But what was jarring was not the thinly-veiled-infomercial nature of the piece, but the part where Rory Best is asked about his BFF's playing style and says he is "a complete knacker on the pitch, as you can imagine."
Does Rory Best mean that Denis Leamy is in the habit of finding old horses on the pitch and turning them into dog food and glue? He would undoubtedly claim that he's using the word in the other sense - that of a person behaving anti-socially or thuggishly. Some say that it's an entirely separate meaning, with no reference to Travellers at all. Bock does (or did, I'll allow for the fact that that post is three years old). But most of the times I've heard people use the phrase "some knacker..." in the middle of an anecdote they will inevitably have to clarify whether they are referring to a scumbag-knacker or, you know, a knacker-knacker. The etymology of any term is a complicated thing, but there seems little doubt that its origins are connected to Travellers. The term is still heavily connected to them, in my experience.
Rory Best has always seemed like a decent enough skin, but he might want to think again about publicly using a term that is highly offensive to an entire culture, even if a lot of people use it freely. They used 'nigger' freely, too, once. If he must use it in the context of Bushmills Brotherly Bonding Banter, then perhaps the Irish Times might think a little more carefully about publishing it, and potentially perpetuating its use among the thousands who will have read that article. Twenty percent would deny citizenship to them, remember, lest we claim that Ireland doesn't have a problem with Travellers. Perhaps they'll redact it later, as they do.
Showing posts with label words. Show all posts
Showing posts with label words. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Monday, November 15, 2010
12
Are you carrying a weapon? I know a lot of you are.
When I was 15 I was suspended from school for being a little bollix. It had manifested itself in various ways, such as shoplifting on a school tour, but had culminated in me and a mate getting busted for our 'convo book'. Bored as every other student, wary of getting caught passing notes, before the advent of teenagers and texting, we took to writing down our every waking thought in a copy book and then sliding it across the desk to the other. This meant that teachers were not inclined to notice anything, and merely assumed we were doing our work. Fancying ourselves as devastatingly witty we prided ourselves on the collection of stuff we wrote, even fancying that one day someone might want to publish our observations. Like Adrian Mole.
But, inevitably, we got caught by a teacher. Who confiscated the copy. And read some of its content. And looked horrified. And passed it on to the principal.
He was not amused. Our book was filled with the usual teenage complaints about school and parents, sometimes fairly bile-flecked. And, of course, lustlorn paeans to female classmates and teachers we fancied. Far from depraved, it was, but it was honest enough and it probably looked mildly deranged in accumulation. My defence, when confronted with the disgust of principal and parents, is that there was nothing there any worse than what everyone else was saying. That everyone had these complaints, these turns-of-phrase, these desires. They did, and much worse, but I learnt the painful lesson then that what you say and what you write down are two very different things. The written word can be taken vastly out of context and can be augmented in a tone that was never intended. And it's there for posterity, not blown in a breeze down the corridor. My mate and I had never intended to offend anyone, but we did, and we came to regret it badly. He wanted to keep hold of our other convo books that he had squirrelled away at home but I insisted that he burn them. As a pretty accurate record of teenage selves that slip further and further away they would probably crack us up to look back over now, but I still feel the right call was made.
I think of that situation, now half a world away from me, when I see stories like the PricewaterhouseCooper one, the Twitter joke trial, and the stupid Tory tit who thought it was merely 'glib' to tweet about stoning someone. As we choose increasingly to replace conversation with online interaction and to inscribe our every brainfart, people are going to have to realise that this kind of shit can't be unsaid, that words are still potent and that they go a fuck of a lot further these days than they used to.
But, inevitably, we got caught by a teacher. Who confiscated the copy. And read some of its content. And looked horrified. And passed it on to the principal.
He was not amused. Our book was filled with the usual teenage complaints about school and parents, sometimes fairly bile-flecked. And, of course, lustlorn paeans to female classmates and teachers we fancied. Far from depraved, it was, but it was honest enough and it probably looked mildly deranged in accumulation. My defence, when confronted with the disgust of principal and parents, is that there was nothing there any worse than what everyone else was saying. That everyone had these complaints, these turns-of-phrase, these desires. They did, and much worse, but I learnt the painful lesson then that what you say and what you write down are two very different things. The written word can be taken vastly out of context and can be augmented in a tone that was never intended. And it's there for posterity, not blown in a breeze down the corridor. My mate and I had never intended to offend anyone, but we did, and we came to regret it badly. He wanted to keep hold of our other convo books that he had squirrelled away at home but I insisted that he burn them. As a pretty accurate record of teenage selves that slip further and further away they would probably crack us up to look back over now, but I still feel the right call was made.
I think of that situation, now half a world away from me, when I see stories like the PricewaterhouseCooper one, the Twitter joke trial, and the stupid Tory tit who thought it was merely 'glib' to tweet about stoning someone. As we choose increasingly to replace conversation with online interaction and to inscribe our every brainfart, people are going to have to realise that this kind of shit can't be unsaid, that words are still potent and that they go a fuck of a lot further these days than they used to.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
9
Notice anything wrong with these posters for films released in Ireland in the last year?
Stop being thick.
'All Right' and Traveler'. A superfluous L and gap and a missing L. Without wishing to go overboard, this blogger is firmly of the opinion that once we start welcoming weird American spellings into our world we might as well, oh, I don't know, salute the stars and stripes and snort Sunny Delight and suchlike. It's a slide that began when we accepted 'cool' as meaning anything other than 'pleasantly cold', took 'awesome' to mean 'quite agreeable' and used 'totally' to mean 'I fully agree'. It will soon reach its nadir when we begin using 'sick' as a positive adjective.
We can, it's fair to say, blame the youth on such tendencies? But now they're smearing it all over our film posters like H-Block protesters. Mark my words, good people, this may very well be the beginning of the end, if the end didn't already begin on the day my mother deemed it appropriate to use the word 'guesstimate' in my presence.
Of course, one might suggest that I am indulging in such pedantry and curmudgeonliness out of an anxiety caused by my impending unemployment leading me to be slightly more on edge than usual. Well, you can all fuck off back to Texas too. It's ignoring the likes of this that led to the rise of Genghis Khan and Idi Amin and those lads, and I'm registering my displeasure at this growing tendency before Uncle Sam has wiped his "butt" with us entirely.
Normalcy
Notice anything wrong with these posters for films released in Ireland in the last year?
Stop being thick.
'All Right' and Traveler'. A superfluous L and gap and a missing L. Without wishing to go overboard, this blogger is firmly of the opinion that once we start welcoming weird American spellings into our world we might as well, oh, I don't know, salute the stars and stripes and snort Sunny Delight and suchlike. It's a slide that began when we accepted 'cool' as meaning anything other than 'pleasantly cold', took 'awesome' to mean 'quite agreeable' and used 'totally' to mean 'I fully agree'. It will soon reach its nadir when we begin using 'sick' as a positive adjective.
We can, it's fair to say, blame the youth on such tendencies? But now they're smearing it all over our film posters like H-Block protesters. Mark my words, good people, this may very well be the beginning of the end, if the end didn't already begin on the day my mother deemed it appropriate to use the word 'guesstimate' in my presence.
Of course, one might suggest that I am indulging in such pedantry and curmudgeonliness out of an anxiety caused by my impending unemployment leading me to be slightly more on edge than usual. Well, you can all fuck off back to Texas too. It's ignoring the likes of this that led to the rise of Genghis Khan and Idi Amin and those lads, and I'm registering my displeasure at this growing tendency before Uncle Sam has wiped his "butt" with us entirely.
Friday, May 7, 2010
4
7
and moreso
that they think it feels it flows it harps it hurts it flanges about every way
it
isn't and
writhing everything preordained preordained small means of mens drool by shooting solipses it snot like this is going to tell you anything you so far alone you so
light up you sized up you
knowthatimademymillionsandididntcareididntcareifuckeditupandilostitallandicarednotawhitiheldittightandthere
might
be
other ways
andmeansandends kwakkrak
elegiac notwithstanding
verisimilitude templates
eating disorders
rampant
yog-urt yo-gurt
titillation
hinges on
it
not
gurning getting or not being
that they think it feels it flows it harps it hurts it flanges about every way
it
isn't and
writhing everything preordained preordained small means of mens drool by shooting solipses it snot like this is going to tell you anything you so far alone you so
light up you sized up you
knowthatimademymillionsandididntcareididntcareifuckeditupandilostitallandicarednotawhitiheldittightandthere
might
be
other ways
andmeansandends kwakkrak
elegiac notwithstanding
verisimilitude templates
eating disorders
rampant
yog-urt yo-gurt
titillation
hinges on
it
not
gurning getting or not being
Thursday, October 15, 2009
17
Oh, the enormity of how this genius has done great to write such a seminal post about wordsies. Enjoy!!!!
The Irish Times published this piece yesterday about some of the most irritating words and expressions people use on a day-to-day basis, such as "whatever", "I, personally" and "basically". It's a good piece, though the sight of all these irritating phrases was enough to make me swear loudly to myself when I first read it.
Nevertheless, in the spirit of whining curmudgeonliness, I've decided to compile my own list of things people say that rub me up the wrong way.
Seminal: 'Seminal' comes from a Greek word meaning seed, the same root from which we get the word 'semen'. It is often used by music and film critics to denote how influential something is or was, e.g. "The Beatles were a seminal band", meaning that they sowed the seeds that led to many other bands. It does not simply mean that they are important. Sports broadcasters regularly fail to realise this. When Bill O'Herlihy excitedly welcomes viewers to "this seminal match for Ireland" he is eschewing much more suitable words like 'crucial', 'critical', or y'know, 'very important' because he thinks this one makes him sound clever. Only if you want to cover Kevin Kilbane in spunk, Billo.
Enjoy: How often are you in a shop or restaurant now where someone hands you what you've asked for and instructs you to "enjoy"? It's a pretty harmless statement, but it feels as unnecessary and platitudinal as "have a nice day". I mean, chances are I wil enjoy my lemon meringue tart and cappuccino, but I don't need your fucking permission, thanks. I could swear it only crept into common usage here about five years ago, but it's ubiquitous now. I could probably develop something of a dough-based crush on the young lady who works in the bakery near my house, were it not for the fact that she concludes every single one of our transactions with "enjoy". It's batch loaf, love, it's as much about staying alive as it is enjoyment.
-sies: "Wantsies!" "Ooh, you've bought your engagement ring, showsies!" "That's a big Mars bar, sharesies?"
It was probably cute when this one started, but it's dancing all over my metaphorical tits by now. I imagine it's only going to keep growing, too. This one should never, fucking ever, be attempted by any straight male over the age of three and a half. Try responding to the next 'sies' you get with a swift "piss offsies".
Enormity: Do you know what enormity actually means? It means 'outrageousness' or 'extreme wickedness'. Honestly. Somewhere along the way someone noticed that it sounds an awful lot like 'enormous' and started using it that way. It's perhaps due to sentences such as "the enormity of the Holocaust", where people assumed it referred to the scale of it, rather than the evilness. Kingsley Amis once wrote something to the effect that we "must battle against the enormity of using enormity to mean enormous." He lost.
"John, we can't underestimate the enormity of this match, can we?"
"No, we can't, Bill."
Genius: Probably the most misused word in the English language. Geniuses of our time include Wayne Rooney, Brian O'Driscoll, Peter Jackson, Robert de Niro and my postman. They're just very good at what they do, is all.* A fellow blogger once referred to Lampsy, the guy who puts pictures of lamps with the caption "I love lamp" all over Dublin as a genius. I had to be restrained from leaving a snotty comment. he's just a guy who likes Anchorman and has too much time on his hands, is all.
The death of the adverb: "The lad's done brilliant to get his shot in from there." Sports broadcasters can, once again, take a bow. Apparently you sound snobby if you tack 'ly' onto the end of adjectives, as the decline in their usage appears to be quite wilful at this stage. It's spreading elsewhere, too. The only instance where it's acceptable to forego the 'ly' is 'shite', as "he's playing shitely tonight" sounds stupid.
Readers, do feel free to wade in with your own pet peeves. 'Pet peeves' should probably be amongst them, disgusting phrase that it is.
*Except my postie, who regularly fails to deliver post to our flat because he's afraid he might slip on the steps. The pizza flyer guys don't seem to mind, the beautiful little geniuses.
Nevertheless, in the spirit of whining curmudgeonliness, I've decided to compile my own list of things people say that rub me up the wrong way.
Seminal: 'Seminal' comes from a Greek word meaning seed, the same root from which we get the word 'semen'. It is often used by music and film critics to denote how influential something is or was, e.g. "The Beatles were a seminal band", meaning that they sowed the seeds that led to many other bands. It does not simply mean that they are important. Sports broadcasters regularly fail to realise this. When Bill O'Herlihy excitedly welcomes viewers to "this seminal match for Ireland" he is eschewing much more suitable words like 'crucial', 'critical', or y'know, 'very important' because he thinks this one makes him sound clever. Only if you want to cover Kevin Kilbane in spunk, Billo.
Enjoy: How often are you in a shop or restaurant now where someone hands you what you've asked for and instructs you to "enjoy"? It's a pretty harmless statement, but it feels as unnecessary and platitudinal as "have a nice day". I mean, chances are I wil enjoy my lemon meringue tart and cappuccino, but I don't need your fucking permission, thanks. I could swear it only crept into common usage here about five years ago, but it's ubiquitous now. I could probably develop something of a dough-based crush on the young lady who works in the bakery near my house, were it not for the fact that she concludes every single one of our transactions with "enjoy". It's batch loaf, love, it's as much about staying alive as it is enjoyment.
-sies: "Wantsies!" "Ooh, you've bought your engagement ring, showsies!" "That's a big Mars bar, sharesies?"
It was probably cute when this one started, but it's dancing all over my metaphorical tits by now. I imagine it's only going to keep growing, too. This one should never, fucking ever, be attempted by any straight male over the age of three and a half. Try responding to the next 'sies' you get with a swift "piss offsies".
Enormity: Do you know what enormity actually means? It means 'outrageousness' or 'extreme wickedness'. Honestly. Somewhere along the way someone noticed that it sounds an awful lot like 'enormous' and started using it that way. It's perhaps due to sentences such as "the enormity of the Holocaust", where people assumed it referred to the scale of it, rather than the evilness. Kingsley Amis once wrote something to the effect that we "must battle against the enormity of using enormity to mean enormous." He lost.
"John, we can't underestimate the enormity of this match, can we?"
"No, we can't, Bill."
Genius: Probably the most misused word in the English language. Geniuses of our time include Wayne Rooney, Brian O'Driscoll, Peter Jackson, Robert de Niro and my postman. They're just very good at what they do, is all.* A fellow blogger once referred to Lampsy, the guy who puts pictures of lamps with the caption "I love lamp" all over Dublin as a genius. I had to be restrained from leaving a snotty comment. he's just a guy who likes Anchorman and has too much time on his hands, is all.
The death of the adverb: "The lad's done brilliant to get his shot in from there." Sports broadcasters can, once again, take a bow. Apparently you sound snobby if you tack 'ly' onto the end of adjectives, as the decline in their usage appears to be quite wilful at this stage. It's spreading elsewhere, too. The only instance where it's acceptable to forego the 'ly' is 'shite', as "he's playing shitely tonight" sounds stupid.
Readers, do feel free to wade in with your own pet peeves. 'Pet peeves' should probably be amongst them, disgusting phrase that it is.
*Except my postie, who regularly fails to deliver post to our flat because he's afraid he might slip on the steps. The pizza flyer guys don't seem to mind, the beautiful little geniuses.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
14
Would I blow everyone's mind if I ate dessert first?
It's been giddy nuns, frank and sensible Germans and smiling Swiss. This is TEFL, and I love it. No two days are photocopies.
"So you definitely don't need me to work tomorrow?"
"No, we don't need you tomorrow. See you on Friday, Andrew."
This is how the wind blows, and it's OK. It's helping me steer clear of the inevitable maiden voyage to the dole office.
I wander down George's Street. Radiohead's In Rainbows is on my ipod. It must be my favourite walking album by an urban mile.
No matter how it ends, no matter how it starts
I'm hungry. But I have a Mars bar in my coat pocket and the components of a killer toasted ham and cheese sandwich at home, only 15 minutes away. I might even go fucking mental altogether and put salami in it too.
Past all the new students on Aungier and Kevin Street. Each and every one of them thinks they are the most unique and special human being on earth. If zany t-shirts and lunchtime pints don't say that, then nothing will. This feeling is likely only to swell for them as they go through the next few years. It will swell, and it will pop.
The infrastructure will collapse
Posters everywhere fight to appeal to my basest natures. Vote No. Vote Yes. Vota Idiota. Fucked if you do and fucked if you don't, from what I can see. Hard not to feel impotent at such times.
I'll be on my own this evening, as she's off to a meeting like a grown-up. A fleeting moment of panic grips me where I wonder what I'll do without her for the evening. Then I laugh at it, glad there's someone whose company feels like a treat every single night. It's dazzlingly sunny for a moment, and I realise I've been walking for the last few seconds with my eyes closed. I've become that guy.
What's the point of instruments? Words are a sawn-off shotgun
And I near home, and I think about how I might try and put how I feel on this brisk walk home into a post. Because I do that from time to time. And I think about how I will fail, because words can't really do that. There might be no way to adequately tell people how you feel. But if I could tell you I would let you know.
You've got a light, you can feel it on your back
A light, you can feel it on your back
A light, you can feel it on your back
Thursday, August 13, 2009
9
On writing, Radiohead, Red's retirement and uh...mixtapes
Weird the way when you go to write a post after a fairly lengthy gap you automatically want to be all apologetic in tone, isn't it? (Though that might just be me). I'm not sorry at all, though, I've never understood why so many bloggers seem to feel this compunction to keep writing even when they know they've nothing to say.
I had this notion that unemployment might make me feel more creative in some way. I was about to say that it hasn't, but when you're as non-prolific as I am then I suppose one half-written short story, one fully-finished piece of crap and one three-quarters done post on an issue isn't that bad. The story will be entered into a competition if the end result turns out OK, the surreal piece of crap will be consigned to the bin, and the post should appear shortly.
As an aside, Radiohead have apparently said that they won't be releasing any more albums, but will release individuals songs, presumably as downloads. One such song has been released this week, it's called Harry Patch (In Memory Of), it's very good, and it's available for just one of those things the Brits like to call "pounds" right here.
Continuing the musical theme, I bought some new headphones the other week. They cost €25, which is not a lot when you consider how much they can be, but is more than I've ever spent on headphones before. And, listening to a bit of Nina Simone late one night, I got to thinking about how some songs really sound best when listened to in a quiet place, on your own, with headphones. It reminded me of my brother's complaint on the one and only occasion that he came to a music festival with me: "I think I prefer music in private. To that end, I've decided that the first ever mix-tape I plan on putting together will be made up of subtle little numbers that work best in a chilled out space on your own. It's almost an anti-festival mix, if you will (though I'm still all excited about the Picnic next month). I will send out a copy to absolutely anyone who would like one, regardless of where you live. so if you're interested in getting one just email me and I'll get right on it. My email is in my Blogger profile at the top right hand corner of the page.
And on that note, I'll finish by saying that I was sorry to see the retirement of the Queen of the Mix Tape last week. Red has been one of the good ones throughout the entire time I've been reading blogs and my feed-reader is going to miss her.
I had this notion that unemployment might make me feel more creative in some way. I was about to say that it hasn't, but when you're as non-prolific as I am then I suppose one half-written short story, one fully-finished piece of crap and one three-quarters done post on an issue isn't that bad. The story will be entered into a competition if the end result turns out OK, the surreal piece of crap will be consigned to the bin, and the post should appear shortly.
As an aside, Radiohead have apparently said that they won't be releasing any more albums, but will release individuals songs, presumably as downloads. One such song has been released this week, it's called Harry Patch (In Memory Of), it's very good, and it's available for just one of those things the Brits like to call "pounds" right here.
Continuing the musical theme, I bought some new headphones the other week. They cost €25, which is not a lot when you consider how much they can be, but is more than I've ever spent on headphones before. And, listening to a bit of Nina Simone late one night, I got to thinking about how some songs really sound best when listened to in a quiet place, on your own, with headphones. It reminded me of my brother's complaint on the one and only occasion that he came to a music festival with me: "I think I prefer music in private. To that end, I've decided that the first ever mix-tape I plan on putting together will be made up of subtle little numbers that work best in a chilled out space on your own. It's almost an anti-festival mix, if you will (though I'm still all excited about the Picnic next month). I will send out a copy to absolutely anyone who would like one, regardless of where you live. so if you're interested in getting one just email me and I'll get right on it. My email is in my Blogger profile at the top right hand corner of the page.
And on that note, I'll finish by saying that I was sorry to see the retirement of the Queen of the Mix Tape last week. Red has been one of the good ones throughout the entire time I've been reading blogs and my feed-reader is going to miss her.
Friday, March 20, 2009
10
Sedentary sediment
Today I missed the deadline for the Fish one page story prize that I had fully intended to enter.
I could blame it on the essay I was struggling to finish for college (submitted sweatily a full six minutes before the deadline this evening), I could blame it on the fact that the girlfriend submitted something much better than I could possibly come up with, I could blame it on my cripping Football Manager addiction. Mostly, though, I think the problem was that I never actually wrote a story of any kind.I wrote nothing. Nothing at all. Not even a germ of an idea. Long have I harboured thoughts of making a living of some description out of writing. But, by my reckoning, in the last seven years I have written maybe four or five things that could in any way count as a story. Not quite Stephen King, then. It might be because I get horribly embarrassed by committing awful things to page or screen, even if I'm the only one who ever reads them. I'm generally the only one who ever reads them.
I have certain standards when it comes to blogging, but I do tend to be far less pernickety as, even if I think I've posted the greatest load of offal this side of Offaly, I can still be persuaded by one or two encouraging comments left by kind people that what I've done is fine. It often isn't, but I'm slowly learning that that's really not all that important. When I do write something I'm pleased with, usually on paper first, I sit and jiggle my legs around uncontrollably and swiftly develop a hazy cloud of smug around my head. It is, quite possibly, far more excruciating in retrospect than when I just have to suck up the unpleasantness of reading over something so monumentally awful it makes me want to burn all the paper in the world.
So, without further ramblings, and with only the slightest of leg-jigglings, I'm now publishing something I wrote specifically for the Homepages book, published last December. Plenty of you will have bought copies of the book already and may have read it, but some of you won't have. Thanks to the work of Catherine many of us who aspire to be published authors have managed to be just that, at least once.
Baxter
He's small and he's beautiful and he's bright as a button. He's curious about my white skin and my oddly straight hair so he clambers onto my lap, where I happily receive him. "Huyu ni nani?", I ask, hoping my rather blunt Swahili for "Who are you?" sounds friendly rather than interrogative. "Ema", he replies quickly, whilst exploring the theory he'd heard about white people being perfectly agreeable to small thumbs being placed in their eyes. he launches into a long stream of consciousness which I don't understand, but which i take to be indicative of great wisdom on his part. "You're so wise Baxter, you're like a mini-Buddha" I say, quoting Ron Burgundy's heartfelt tribute to his dog without even realising I'd done it. 'Baxter' sticks from then on, at least for me and any other volunteers whose sense of humour causes them no qualms about nicknaming a small Tanzanian child after a fictional dog.
"How old is he?" I ask a passing mama, off to do some real work. "Emanuel?" She thinks for a moment. "He is maybe two and a half or three. The people in the village, they found him in a bush so we do not know where he was born. the think his parents died from the sickness." The Sickness rarely gets its proper name in these parts, many people will even look away in distaste if you use its local name, Ukimwi. "Is he sick, too?" I ask nervously, clutching this glowingly healthy-looking child a little closer. "No, we do not think so.It is good because then it is allowed for him to share cups and bowls with the other children.
Small crumbs, Baxter, small crumbs.
It transpires that Baxter has an incredible head for names, and can tell you who any one of the 50-odd other orphans is. His roguish good looks and affectionate nature mean I'm far from the only one to fall for his charms. We bicker, with tongues far less firmly planted in our cheeks than they ought to be, over who he likes best. Baxter and I are having our daily chinwag one morning when another child wanders over, craving some attention. Baxter swats a small hand at him and scolds "Mzungu wangu!", wrapping his arms around my leg. I double over with laughter and kiss his little shaved head. "What does that mean?" asks another mzungu.
I grin smugly. "My white guy" I say, pleased as punch at the one-upmanship this allows me, pleased that I understood, pleased that he's used the word 'wangu', which I understand to be the more intimate form of 'my', often reserved for family. Whether or not Baxter is aware of these linguistic subtleties is an entirely moot point, in my view.
It is suggested to me that I look into adopting him. Insanely, this doesn't seem like an insane idea. So I do so, tentatively. It's a non-runner. The Irish government has a very select list of countries you are allowed to adopt from, and Tanzania is not on it. Even if it was, these orphans are not registered for adoption, as it's seen as leaving children open to be adopted for servitude or paedophilia. in the days leading up to our exodus from Tanzania Baxter can sense that there is something up. He cries and gets clingier. On my final day I take him in my arms for a chat. "Baxter", I say "How did anyone leave someone so handsome as you in a bush?" He gurgles some profound pearls. "It's alright though, they found they found Moses in a bunch of reeds and he turned out OK. Ninakupenda wewe, kwaheri."
He looks at me and agitates slightly.
"Chakula", he says.
Yes Baxter, you go get some food.
I leave him, smiling contentedly with face covered in snot and sticky rice, and crumple my long way home.
I could blame it on the essay I was struggling to finish for college (submitted sweatily a full six minutes before the deadline this evening), I could blame it on the fact that the girlfriend submitted something much better than I could possibly come up with, I could blame it on my cripping Football Manager addiction. Mostly, though, I think the problem was that I never actually wrote a story of any kind.I wrote nothing. Nothing at all. Not even a germ of an idea. Long have I harboured thoughts of making a living of some description out of writing. But, by my reckoning, in the last seven years I have written maybe four or five things that could in any way count as a story. Not quite Stephen King, then. It might be because I get horribly embarrassed by committing awful things to page or screen, even if I'm the only one who ever reads them. I'm generally the only one who ever reads them.
I have certain standards when it comes to blogging, but I do tend to be far less pernickety as, even if I think I've posted the greatest load of offal this side of Offaly, I can still be persuaded by one or two encouraging comments left by kind people that what I've done is fine. It often isn't, but I'm slowly learning that that's really not all that important. When I do write something I'm pleased with, usually on paper first, I sit and jiggle my legs around uncontrollably and swiftly develop a hazy cloud of smug around my head. It is, quite possibly, far more excruciating in retrospect than when I just have to suck up the unpleasantness of reading over something so monumentally awful it makes me want to burn all the paper in the world.
So, without further ramblings, and with only the slightest of leg-jigglings, I'm now publishing something I wrote specifically for the Homepages book, published last December. Plenty of you will have bought copies of the book already and may have read it, but some of you won't have. Thanks to the work of Catherine many of us who aspire to be published authors have managed to be just that, at least once.
Baxter
He's small and he's beautiful and he's bright as a button. He's curious about my white skin and my oddly straight hair so he clambers onto my lap, where I happily receive him. "Huyu ni nani?", I ask, hoping my rather blunt Swahili for "Who are you?" sounds friendly rather than interrogative. "Ema", he replies quickly, whilst exploring the theory he'd heard about white people being perfectly agreeable to small thumbs being placed in their eyes. he launches into a long stream of consciousness which I don't understand, but which i take to be indicative of great wisdom on his part. "You're so wise Baxter, you're like a mini-Buddha" I say, quoting Ron Burgundy's heartfelt tribute to his dog without even realising I'd done it. 'Baxter' sticks from then on, at least for me and any other volunteers whose sense of humour causes them no qualms about nicknaming a small Tanzanian child after a fictional dog.
"How old is he?" I ask a passing mama, off to do some real work. "Emanuel?" She thinks for a moment. "He is maybe two and a half or three. The people in the village, they found him in a bush so we do not know where he was born. the think his parents died from the sickness." The Sickness rarely gets its proper name in these parts, many people will even look away in distaste if you use its local name, Ukimwi. "Is he sick, too?" I ask nervously, clutching this glowingly healthy-looking child a little closer. "No, we do not think so.It is good because then it is allowed for him to share cups and bowls with the other children.
Small crumbs, Baxter, small crumbs.
It transpires that Baxter has an incredible head for names, and can tell you who any one of the 50-odd other orphans is. His roguish good looks and affectionate nature mean I'm far from the only one to fall for his charms. We bicker, with tongues far less firmly planted in our cheeks than they ought to be, over who he likes best. Baxter and I are having our daily chinwag one morning when another child wanders over, craving some attention. Baxter swats a small hand at him and scolds "Mzungu wangu!", wrapping his arms around my leg. I double over with laughter and kiss his little shaved head. "What does that mean?" asks another mzungu.
I grin smugly. "My white guy" I say, pleased as punch at the one-upmanship this allows me, pleased that I understood, pleased that he's used the word 'wangu', which I understand to be the more intimate form of 'my', often reserved for family. Whether or not Baxter is aware of these linguistic subtleties is an entirely moot point, in my view.
It is suggested to me that I look into adopting him. Insanely, this doesn't seem like an insane idea. So I do so, tentatively. It's a non-runner. The Irish government has a very select list of countries you are allowed to adopt from, and Tanzania is not on it. Even if it was, these orphans are not registered for adoption, as it's seen as leaving children open to be adopted for servitude or paedophilia. in the days leading up to our exodus from Tanzania Baxter can sense that there is something up. He cries and gets clingier. On my final day I take him in my arms for a chat. "Baxter", I say "How did anyone leave someone so handsome as you in a bush?" He gurgles some profound pearls. "It's alright though, they found they found Moses in a bunch of reeds and he turned out OK. Ninakupenda wewe, kwaheri."
He looks at me and agitates slightly.
"Chakula", he says.
Yes Baxter, you go get some food.
I leave him, smiling contentedly with face covered in snot and sticky rice, and crumple my long way home.
Friday, February 13, 2009
5
Friggatriskaidekaphobia
A genuine word, combing triskaidekaphobia (fear of the number 13), with Frigga, a Germanic goddess who gives her name to Friday, to form a word meaning 'fear of Friday the 13th'.
Magnificent, huh?
I'd love to add it to my list of neuroses, but there are two Friday the 13ths still to come this year, and two entire days of fear sounds like a lot of hard work.
Magnificent, huh?
I'd love to add it to my list of neuroses, but there are two Friday the 13ths still to come this year, and two entire days of fear sounds like a lot of hard work.
Monday, January 5, 2009
8
Words I Intend to Use More in 2009
cygnet
lissome
blithe
rearguard
tatty
nuanced
dredge
jugular
frisson
didactic
caucasian
avarice
phlegmatic
rippled
clean
beneficial
erratic
immodest
calibrate
gosling
lissome
blithe
rearguard
tatty
nuanced
dredge
jugular
frisson
didactic
caucasian
avarice
phlegmatic
rippled
clean
beneficial
erratic
immodest
calibrate
gosling
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