Thursday, 28 October 2010

Pottymouth - Part The Second

Friday night was always the night that Nana came over to stay, quite often babysitting while Ma and Pa went out. This meant two things- a delivery of comics, chocolates and crisps with which to spoil us rotten and a selection of Nana-friendly programmes on the TV (with an occasional film or programme that we weren't allowed to watch as we could always convince Nana that Mum and Dad said it was OK). Coronation Street was non-negotiable - she'd always watched this and would continue to do so, right to the end - but the prime time 8 o/clock show was variable. Murder She Wrote (featuring that mass-murdering Angel of Death Jessica Fletcher who ended each show by using her freaky powers of persuasion to get some poor sap to confess and take the fall for her) was often the option but, if Dynasty was on, then we were in for a treat.

For Nana always got fully swept up in her soaps and none more so than that haven for people with extremely high shoulder pads, Dynasty. She very much enjoyed all the glitzy soap-based shenanigans and goings-o (a far cry from Corrie) but one character in particular would send her into near apoplexy. Whenever Joan Collins would grace the screen, playing the scheming and conniving Alexis, there was only one word that would escape Nana's lips:-

"Bitch!"

Oh, she took exception to Alexis did our Nana and every time we heard the word that rhymed with rich coming out of that sweet little old churchgoing dentured mouth, the Bro and I would be beside ourselves with glee. For kids love nothing more than hearing their nearest and dearest forget where they are and let slip with a little bit of a swear. To this day, this has cemented two things in my mind. Firstly, any mention of the programme Dynasty automatically makes me think of Nana swearing. Secondly, and most importantly, old people swearing is always guaranteed to amuse me in an extremely childish way.



1 comment:

cerebus660 said...

Hi Nick! My parents were farmers and my Dad, like most farmers it seems, was adept at very frequent and creative swearing. My Mum would always frown on this behaviour and tell him off, to no avail.

But one day we were trying to herd an escaped cow back into a field and, after God-knows-how-long chasing her up and down the lane, my Mum shouted "Get in that f***ing field!" It was like Christmas had come early! A slice of fried gold.