I Say! You Don't Say! Say What?

Dirty Bertie Lawrence



KATHERINE: Comment appelez-vous le pied et la robe?
ALICE: Le foot, madame, et le coun.
KATHERINE: Le foot et le coun! O Seigneur Dieu! Ce sont les mots de son mauvais, corruptible, gros, et impudique, et non pour les dames d'honneur d'user.

William Shakespeare (Henry V. Act 3, Scene 4)

THE LPA, the Little People of America, want the word midget to have the same status as the word nigger. So, the m-word and the n-word. Now, I know for a fact that there are people of extremely small stature outside of the United States of America, for we have at least three people in Amble by the Sea with achondroplasia. I am not sure whether they are related, I have seen the young female chasing the young male through the streets, yelling abuse, which suggests some sort of loving relationship, and there is an older gentleman. Achondroplasia is a form of dwarfism, and Amble's little people might prefer to be d-words.

The former midgets of America, dwarves and simply short folks can be little if they wish. However, in ten years' time, some bright, if diminutive, spark is going to take umbrage at the word little, as it belittles, and the issue will have to be debated again.

I've noticed that homosexuals, who now usually prefer to be thought of as gay, often don't mind being thought of as queer in 2009. Thirty or forty years ago that was offensive. Mind you, if you call someone who is either not homosexual, or who is in the closet, gay, queer, a poof, he is going to really find that objectionable. Watch the labels!

My father, who just didn't like people of colour, had an olive complexion and he was a compulsive sun-bather and, especially as he aged, was as dark as an Egyptian mummy. I once had somebody telephone me, after my father's death, to ask if my father's father (my grandfather) might have been a black man from Jamaica. I knew my pale, fair grandfather and had to disappoint my nosy caller.

Considering I spent a good deal of my life in Bermuda (I was born there), I do not write about it here all that often. I've been trying to write about the present and future as much as possible, and Bermuda has gone down the tubes in the past few years. I will tell you that there is dictatorial rule there. When the Progressive Labour Party championed One Man One Vote, I was naïve enough not to anticipate that it would be one man, Dr Ewart Brown, the Leader as he likes to be called, and that his vote is the only one that would matter. Dr Brown has a faithful henchman, Minister David Burch, the former commanding officer of the Bermuda Regiment. They have a radio station. Burch, famously, refers to people of colour that do not belong to the PLP, that associate with the few remaining white politicians in Bermuda, as house niggers. He uses that expression in speeches on the radio. And when he uses it, it's quite okay. If I spoke in public in Bermuda and referred to David Burch as a gay nigger (I've heard he is homosexual, but this may be based only on the fact that after he retired from the Regiment he grew his hair long and started wearing hoop earrings) I'd soon feel the wrath of the ruling class.

Are words and language divisible? Can certain people lay claim to certain words, and use and abuse them at will, while other people are denied the opportunity?

I say allow Hitler his Mein Kampf, at least we know where he was coming from. We'd certainly praise the struggle of a Nelson Mandela or an Elie Wiesel. The most dangerous book ever compiled is the Holy Bible.

When I was a boy, in Bermuda, the local Negroes, a word I cannot use there now, were called Coloured, a word I cannot use there now. Then they followed the lead of the Americans and became Black. From time to time, some voice from the Babel chirps up, usually in Bermuda's daily newspaper, requesting that the paper and all people stop using the word black negatively. No black sheep, no black as night, no black-hearted soul, no black-out or blackmail, perhaps no in the black for accounts.

When I worked for a few years in the hell that was Kit n Caboodle, a Bermuda convenience store that also had a passport photo service, many of my customers of colour, who almost certainly thought of themselves as black, complained that they looked, in their passport pictures, too dark, as black as Jamaicans. Which was not a good thing. Go figure.

Pity the gay, black midget.

When I was at school, we read Shakespeare's Henry V in an abridged format. Our Literature teacher, Frank "Buck" Rogers, suggested we go to the Main Library in town and look at a copy of the play to locate what was missing from the school edition. Shakespeare's audiences liked a bit of smut and were pretty smart if they picked up on the puns in the English lesson that Alice gives to Princess Katherine in Act 3, Scene 4. Asked what the English was for pied and robe, Katherine is told foot and coun. Foot is a pun on the French word for fuck, and coun (gown mispronounced by Alice) is the French for cunt.

My Spell-Check tells me that the word cunt does not exist. Perhaps the people at MS Word could read DH Lawrence. Lawrence did not invent the word cunt, he simply recognised the obvious, that it existed.

The brilliant film Atonement has a plot that evolves from the use of the word cunt in a short letter. The word is not spoken aloud in the film that I noticed, but one sees it on a page as the typewriter keys go down. The word is electric, it is more than that. Nuclear, perhaps.

We read a little of William Chaucer in our school Literature lessons, but it was our Chemistry master, Billy Hanlon, who read us The Miller's Tale in a concise modern translation. It was hilarious, of course. The same year that I'd felt a bit uncomfortable studying the British in India and putting the city of Lahore on our map, I nearly convulsed with laughter at the Miller's story of a bare bottom being kissed and the kisser receiving a fart in return.

A few months ago, Britain suddenly had an attack of the prudes. A few thousand viewers, out of many million, decided that the use of certain language and certain situations should not be financed by the television tax levied on households that gives us the advertisement-free BBC programming. Suddenly everything was stifled; presenters and guests alike squirmed during live presentations. The many other channels carried on as usual. No censorship, though there is an unwritten agreement to keep nudity and strong (a term that amuses me) language for the evening viewers. Blue Peter ain't what you might think! We do have life drawing classes at midday on Channel 4.

This week, however, there is a break in the nonsense that has clouded good judgement at the BBC. After the watershed, nine o'clock at night, the real world has returned. On Torchwood the gay characters can be gay: Captain Jack cradles his lover, the dying Ianto, and kisses him. And on the new series of Mock the Week, team members have been told they might not use the word fuck as a noun, according to panellist Frankie Boyle (who may be joking), but can use it as an adjective. So, last night, when Frankie had to improvise something that would not be heard in a Star Trek movie, he said: "'Why are you looking so sad, Captain Picard?' 'Because I'm a Shakespearian actor, and here I am having a conversation with the fucking King of the Worm People.'" You have to admit, the fucking helped make this joke a new classic.

Perhaps I have offended? Just words on a page. Get over it. Little People of America, you seem more concerned with a letterhead life than a real one.

Shakespeare, Our Shakespeare

And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry: 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'
William Shakespeare. Henry V Act III, Scene I

THIS COMING THURSDAY, 23 April 2009, some of us here on this royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle, will be celebrating England's National Day, the Feast of Saint George, the one that slew the dragon.

Saint George may not have been English born (though some must say he was, by convenient legend, born in Coventry), but he is the patron saint of the English. You must not confuse the English with the British: the English are all British, but the British are not necessarily English (they might be Welsh, Scottish or Northern Irish … and not happy to be called English at all).

The English are not the only people who consider Saint George their patron saint. If Greeks, Russians and Ethiopians also raise a glass to George on his day, and Portuguese and Lithuanians join in, don't be shocked. I would be surprised, perhaps pleasantly, to see men at football matches with their torsos painted with the red cross on a white background, the flag of Saint George, cheering on teams that are decidedly not English. I don't expect that to happen: The banner is most English.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE may have been born on Saint George's Day, 23 April 1564; he was christened on 26 April of that year. He did die on Saint George's Day, 1616. And we've all heard how little we know about this, the greatest writer in the English language. Did Shakespeare even exist? In fact, according to a delightful and readable book by Bill Bryson ("Shakespeare: The World as a Stage") there are quite a few signs that one William Shakespeare was born in 1564, and died in 1616, and did some remarkable things in between time. Very few so-called famous people of Shakespeare's means, of that time in England, left so many clues, so much evidence, besides the plays and sonnets normally attributed to him.

I first visited Stratford-Upon-Avon and the Shakespeare sites there when I was a young boy, one of those all-day coach trips with my Nan Eldridge. I've been a few times since, but I remember, from that first visit fifty years ago, Anne Hathaway's Cottage, and the Royal Shakespeare Theatre seen from a distance. Not a few years later I read my first Shakespeare, "Henry V", in English classes. I failed my final exam, had to retake it six months later, which I did successfully, if only just. And I absolutely hated the whole Shakespeare business. What did Shakespeare have to do with the 1960s? The now?

Then, in 1968, I saw, several times, the Franco Zeffirelli film of "Romeo and Juliet", and loved what I was hearing and seeing. While Zeffirelli took some liberties with the dialogue, there was Shakespeare at the core. The film of that play starring Leonardo di Caprio decades later was less convincing, being set in latter-day "Verona Beach" somewhere in the USA, but one hopes it turned some young people on.

I've seen many films of Shakespeare's plays, and one built around his sonnets (Rupert Graves as the bisexual Bard in "A Waste of Shame"). I fell asleep in the Island Movie Theatre watching Olivier's "Othello", having just had a big dinner at the Royal Bermuda Yacht Club with drinks and a few pills. I enjoyed Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor's take on "The Taming of the Shrew". Sir Ian McKellen's "Richard III" set in the 1930s was excellent, though I prefer period dramas to stay in their period as a rule. I've suffered through a few Hamlets, a play I just cannot like yet (I'm waiting for the condensed "Piglet"). I've seen a curious version of "Richard II" featuring a woman in the title role: The language of that play is exquisite, but I kept fretting over the gender casting. I have seen "A Midsummer Night's Dream" staged … outdoors … And "Timon of Athens" staged in a Globe-replica theatre in Cedar City, Utah. Both very uncomfortable experiences from a physical point of view.

Of course, I've seen "Shakespeare in Love" which I enjoyed the first time, if not the second. I've read Wilde's "The Portrait of Mr. W.H." and saw the episode of "Doctor Who" set in the Globe Theatre back in the day.

One worries that in order to make Shakespeare "easy" the language will be "modernized", which is to say "destroyed" and "lost". Already the Authorized Version of the King James Bible, in my lifetime, has become a rarity. For some reason, everything has to be "dumbed down", as the odd expression goes. So many rap lyrics.

What might be my favourite lines from Shakespeare? The "This England" from Richard II, of course, and these few from Romeo and Juliet, Juliet's father speaking as he examines her body:

Ha! Let me see her: out, alas! She's cold:
Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff;
Life and these lips have long been separated:
Death lies on her like an untimely frost
Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.

Dear God, but that's some writing! Did Shakespeare sweat over those for days, or just knock them out while trying to meet a deadline thinking 'This will have to do…', or wake in the night with that combination in his head?

Is it any wonder one recognises any representation of Shakespeare much as one knows Jesus Christ or Mickey Mouse when one sees them?

You may not be English, you may not be British, you may not think much of Saint George, you may not care for Western Civilization, but can you deny the poetry in those words? And knowing Shakespeare was so very English … might you celebrate, at least, his nativity on 23 April?

Raise a glass to William Shakespeare! And dragon pie for all! And good on old England!

Telly Like It Is

Cailean had his monthly flea and tick treatment earlier today - Advantix, a Bayer product - and is feeling poorly. This has happened each time for the last four months: a few hours after the dab on the back of his neck he becomes restless, then listless, and insists on getting as near to me as possible. Clearly, the poor boy is unwell. A day later, he's back to normal.

I managed to get some of the chemical on my fingertips. Nervous creature that I am, I chew my fingertips unconsciously. No telling if a residue of imidacloprid and permethrin gets into my system as well. If so, I'm coping better than Cailean does. I haven't had any fleas since May either!

Cailean is, in his misery, trying to coil himself on my lap. He's a very small dog, but just a tad too big to comfortably do that these days. Typing here is a circus act in early rehearsals.

As it is raining quite heavily outside (it rained inside once when the people upstairs replaced some plumbing pipes in their floor without benefit of someone from Poland), we are not going far today.

I spent most of yesterday reading. I finished off Julian Clary. At least his autobiography, A Young Man's Passage, which was rather a good read, and I actually was breathless from laughing out loud a number of times. If outrageous stories about buggery don't bother you, look for this book.

After that, I picked up The Lodger by Charles Nicholl, which is sub-titled Shakespeare on Silver Street. This is a study of William Shakespeare and his world when he was about forty and lodging with the Mountjoy family in Cripplegate. In 1612, Shakespeare gave evidence for a lawsuit, a family dispute, over an unpaid dowry that Christopher Mountjoy's son-in-law was claiming. There is a statement, dictated by the Bard, and signed by him: Shakespeare's personal words, not those of one of his many characters. That statement is not great art, quite perfunctory, he sounds to have been bored by the whole business. However, Charles Nicholl then uses his research to reconstruct post-Tudor England, London in particular, and to give us glimpses of the Great Man through the eyes of his contemporaries. Not a lot of buggery in this book, but still a very good history, and in easy language.

Rather than read today, I thought I might have a look at the television.

I will say upfront that I've been both annoyed and bamboozled by the BBC coverage of the Beijing Olympic Games which are being aired at this time. There seems very little enthusiasm here in Great Britain for these Olympics. I expected the media guides to have detailed information, but not even the magazine covers are mentioning the Games or showing pictures of our hopefuls (much less those from other countries!) and one wit said: "The only people who are watching these Olympics are those who are too fucking lazy to reach for the remote…"

Beggin' yer pardon, me luds, over the choice of words, which I have quoted exactly, but on our television we have no censorship.

Could I find the times that I might see some gymnastics (another wit: "Something to keep the paedophiles happy …") or diving events? Not a chance.

One magazine on the rack in the newsagents had a cover announcing that Jordan is having her "5th Boob Job". How many boobs does the woman have? Remember the opening sequence in Fellini's Satyricon? Jordan must be aiming for that, or better.

Another magazine has the story on Big Brother 9 contestants, Luke and Bex, who, now that they have been given the boot, are supposed to have consummated their relationship. On our version of Big Brother, the boys and girls are encouraged to bed down together, and stick-insect, retiring, virginal and whingeing Luke from Wigan wound up sharing a duvet with the awfully buxom and outgoing Rebecca from Coventry. Well, Bex's buxom bosoms were certainly outgoing: they were out for all to see every day, every night. Poor Luke, lost somewhere in Coventry! A euphemism.

I picked up the Radio Times with a non-Olympics cover featuring Sir Terry Wogan, a BBC Radio 2 presenter that I just cannot abide. He may be 70, he says, but he feels like 15 at heart. He's overpaid and getting crabby: qualities that do not endear him to me. He also complains that young people these days just wouldn't have the good fortune that he had in even getting into broadcasting. Sir Terry earns in excess of £800,000 as an aging rock DJ, and is actually paid by the BBC for hosting the Children in Need charity fundraiser each year (and has been since 1980). Perhaps, if he retired, all that money might go to raise up some new blood that the Beeb simply cannot afford to take on right now?

To watch some television this afternoon then?

It is still raining steadily. The postie just poured my post through the letterbox. Apparently, my Clifford James catalogue has spent the weekend in the River: ordinary rain could not have soaked it so thoroughly. It cannot be peeled open, which is a shame. I think there might be a Solar Cherub on page 5 for under £20. Its three fountain basins charge in the sun and glow at night, while a plump female cherub has her way with a smaller boy. Bex and Luke! How camp is that?

I could watch Gok's Fashion Fix on Channel 4, but could you watch a bloke with a name that sounds like a cat hawking up a hairball?

On Medical Investigation a man is spreading a flesh-eating virus through a hospital. Before my dinner? I think not.

There's a game show called Golden Balls, and that makes me blush to think on, knowing that just about anything goes on the telly here. Pass.

Flog It! From Windsor, it says, sounds promising. No doubt it's Prince Harry in Nazi gear. At the very least, it could be Princess Anne dealing with a dead horse. Maybe.

The CSI franchise has just about filled up an entire channel's schedule. I like the opening sequences with the theme music from The Who. I'd like to write a play, CSI: Amble by the Sea, and feature Pete Townsend's Rough Boys. I could skip the television this afternoon and fantasise about that.

Or, I could just gather up Cailean and settle back and watch the Olympics, it is Women's Trampolining. Bex from Big Brother could certainly bring a little zing to that event!

You know, aching eyes or not, I'm going back to Shakespeare in The Lodger.