~ My Rant ~

"Language Timothy!"

Right off of the top: Who ever keeps giving my name to these Email spammers flogging Viagra, I do wish you'd stop it 'cos I'm getting a right complex.

Don't worry, you won't find any objectionable language or any untoward material at this website (but I do so love the expression "Sod Off" - thank you Daphne - sorry Mum). I might have the odd "Terrets Syndrome" moment myself, but I generally keep it to myself. Why should I care? Child of a different era I suppose. 

For instance: I had my mouth washed out  with soap (by me Mum) just for calling my sister a "big fat cow." I bitterly maintained that I had merely called her a "big fat buffalo."  Talk about a punishment with a lasting impression; it's indelibly etched on my memory. I can see it all now: Mum lifting me up and sitting me down on the kitchen sink draining board, taking that little bit of yellowed soap and, and... oh it's too horrible to talk about. I wouldn't normally resent a bit of discipline, but I was 25 at the time. 

Why are North American custom's officials such an ignorant bunch of #@*&!? I could write a book I'll tell yuh. I think I must have drug smuggler written all over me. And I still haven't forgotten about that Walker's pork pie Mr. Calgary Customs Official. I hope you got mad pig's disease from it. I hear it causes you to fall down a lot and wallow in your own excrement; the disease that is, not eating pork pies - although come to think of it...

The most memorable customs confrontation was the crew-cut gender-bender at Calgary Airport who embarrassed me in front of my whole family for not having my citizenship card in addition to my passport. I told her that I had lived in Canada for 31 years -  which was probably longer than she had - and I didn't think I needed it. She just wouldn't let it pass - bloody cow - whoops, sorry again Mum. No, no Mum, not the soap again.

Speaking of Mums, there is this peculiar species of  North American human called the "Soccer Mum." Beware, they may be coming to a neighbourhood near you. Is it any wonder that Canadian soccer, goes nowhere, when you've got parents yelling things from the sidelines like "now Jason, we don't keep score remember." Poor little Jason was shamefully pleased that his team was winning. Even if they do keep score, then they stop after one team gets too far in front because you don't want to hurt the poor little sod's (those on the loosing team) self esteem. Then there's the classic "Oh good, a tied (drawn) game, now everyone's a winner."  Top that off with the move to have parents applaud the opposite team so nobody will feel "excluded." Bloody Hell, it's a competitive game, you play to win - otherwise, what's the point? Give me the kid's Ice Hockey program any old day. At least the politically correct haven't got their revisionist claws into that game yet. You just have to put up with "Hockey Dads."

Ah the politically correct; that sub-species of the small "l" liberal; don't get me started -  well too late now. Since some of our more liberal-minded governments - yuh know, those that have captured the political middle - are so hell bent on giving away the farm (so to speak) perhaps we Expat Brits should start making our own  "native" demands: I demand that the government set up little English villages so that we ex-Brits can celebrate and recapture our lost heritage - that which was so cruelly taken from us so many years ago (by Harold Wilson). Why should we be forced to join the 21st Century? We want our rights:

 Thatched-roofed cottages with little picket fences (and shrubbery of course); branch lines with real steam locomotives (axe that Mr. Beaching) level crossings, a quaint  little train station - complete with a flower garden (lovingly cared for by the stationmaster's wife); bobbies on bicycles two by two, the rosy red cheeks of the little chil...(oh never mind); duck pond, a mill, the village postie, a sweet shop, proper old telephone and mail boxes; can't forget the village pub - anyway, you get the picture. After all, the cult of victimhood is de rigueur nowadays, so let's all get on the bandwagon. Oh, and of course we won't pay any taxes, but we will take the government handouts. After all, we still have our indigenous pride. After we have set up our homeland, and since it's my idea, we'll call it "New Leicester." Well it's better than "New Peatling" ain't it? how about "New Willoughby?"

Accents: I like accents for the most part. I have lived over in this country (Canada) for so long that I honestly don't hear the accent any longer; however, there are some words that just grate on the old nerves. The infamous Canadian aboot or aboat instead of about leaps out of a conversation like being slapped in the gob. And as for the pretentious crowd who insist on pronouncing Southern as Sow-thern... well what's that all about? And what the h-e-double hockey sticks is a vee-hickle? A vehicle I guess.

Ah! now that feels much better. 

Disclaimer: No cats were hurt during this rant; however: "here puss - puss."

Oh, by the way, I'm still looking for that kid "wot smacked me in the gob" at South Wigston Sec Mod around 1956, just cos I bumped 'im with me satchel.