Derbyshire

Ram

by Enormous on November 25, 2009

After years of loving neglect, I decided yesterday to re-energise my powers of detection and set about trying to determine the meaning of ram when it is used – as it often is in this vicinity, especially by the committed teenage swearers who feel compelled to hurl abuse at Audrey and I whenever we wander into their territory – as a term of abuse.

It was Reg who enlightened me. Apparently, in this particular instance, ram is meant to signify someone who is utterly useless and universally despised.

According to Reg, it refers either to the local football team or to bestiality. Or both.

These are subjects that are discussed (and in the case of the latter, ostensibly practiced with alarming regularity) very often in the living-rooms, snooker halls and gin-joints of Derbyshire and its outlying areas.

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Middle English

by Enormous on November 20, 2009

Living in this uninteresting village in the middle of England is not such a bad thing, even though I often complain about it. And about its inhabitants.

The surrounding countryside is beautiful here in Derbyshire and provides agreeable walks for me and Audrey; local people are generally polite and unobjectionable; the weather is mild and temperate, and – most importantly – the area is renowned for its attractive females.

There is, perhaps, a surfeit of villains and murderers residing in the Midlands, but one tends to avoid such people, as a general rule.

And you can’t really blame the area’s youth too much for their negative attitude to life, their casual vandalism and antisocial behaviour; that is more the fault of their parents and of the piteously poor education system in the country as a whole.

In fact, being verbally abused on a regular basis by teenagers in the village has had a positive effect on my vocabulary.

And I was pleasantly surprised yesterday when a boy stepped off the pavement to allow Audrey and I to pass. I thanked him but he merely grunted in reply. Anything else would probably have stretched his manners to the point of injury.

Insulting remarks and general abuse from disenchanted youngsters doesn’t always bear scrutiny in matters of reason or social diplomacy, but I have learned some new swear-words.

‘Dil’, ‘ferjino’ and ‘mo’ are pejorative outbursts I can imagine using for my own means in the future, as are the wonderfully descriptive adjectives ‘vommy’ and ‘cocking’.

Such terms are not even required to make any sense.

‘You’re a f*cking poledancer, mate. You cocking pole.’ (Or was it Pole?)

‘Is yer dog’s dildo up yer arse?’ There really is no suitable reply to such an inquiry.

‘You is goalie for rams, innit.’ (I have no idea – but the term rams is used regularly as a personal insult in Derbyshire and Nottinghamshire.)

‘Is yer dog gay?’ is a question I get asked a lot, for some reason. (She’s not, as far as I can tell.)

And: ‘Do yer lick yer dog’s lipstick?’ was a question which, when asked, had a young girl and her three friends chuckling uncontrollably with mirth, but the meaning of which escaped me entirely.

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Sex Addict

by Enormous on November 28, 2008

As Audrey and I were returning from the Co-op this morning, I was worrying whether I was a sex addict – I realised that, on average, I think about sex two or three times a day – when OAP drummer Reg popped his big head out of the newly-refurbished Starlight Café and demanded we join him inside for a refreshing cup of Earl Grey.

He was wearing a white cotton tabard and a matching cap. ‘I’ve got a part-time job here,’ he explained, ‘to help me pay the bills.’

As we were chatting and he was waiting for ‘the eleven o’clock rush’ he couldn’t stop drumming his fingers on the new pine counter. ‘That’s rather annoying, Reg,’ I told him.

‘I know,’ he sighed.

(All drummers do such things constantly. Don’t ever take a drummer to a Chinese Restaurant; as soon as he gets hold of the chopsticks there will be prawn balls everywhere.)

I asked Reg about the odd décor in the quiet little Derbyshire café – log furniture and red embroidered tablecloths featured heavily which gave the place a vague Alpine feel; I half expected a tiny man in leather shorts to appear clutching a bowl of sauerkraut and a glistening pink sausage.

‘Nothing to do with me, Davy,’ he said. ‘I would have gone for black and chrome, like my old Premier kit.’

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