Teenagers

Telling Teenage Fortunes

by Enormous on February 23, 2010

No.56
You will fall asleep in R.E. The teacher, Mr Hook, who looks like a baby-eating troll, will throw a King James bible at you. He will ask you this: ‘Having a nice dream, Lawrence? Would you like to share it with the class?’

To which you will reply: ‘I was dreaming about Jesus, sir.’ (You were actually dreaming about going to buy batteries for a man.)

As your teacher stares at you with undisguised hatred in his eyes, you will be overcome by a fit of yawning which you will suppress by coughing nervously and by scratching at your nose like a chimpanzee.

‘What do you want to do when you eventually grow up, boy?’ He will ask you.

This will be your reply: ‘Live in a windmill and solve crimes, sir.’

You will be put on detention for three weeks.

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Telling Teenage Fortunes

by Enormous on December 4, 2009

No.54

You will spill a pint of lager over someone you are trying to chat up.

Later, she will tell you that she thinks you are ‘really sweet’ but that she doesn’t want a ‘serious-type of relationship kind-of-thing.’

This is what you will tell her: ‘So do I, neither. How about a quick shag?’

You will be slapped hard in the face for the first time in your life. It will hurt.

You will begin to doubt the credibility of the ironic comment. (Especially where women are concerned.)

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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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On Passing a Log

by Enormous on October 2, 2009

Several old and blighted horse chestnuts trees – providers of conkers for generations of local schoolboys – have been felled on the park recently, and some delightful teenagers were sitting on one of the big trunks yesterday when Audrey and I passed during our evening promenade.

‘Is your dog a bitch?’ This was a question I had been asked before.

I knew, of course, that the regular reader would assume I was using heavy irony when I referred to the filthy working-class peasant children of the village who look like urchin extras from Les Miserables as delightful. They are anything but. ‘Excuse me?’ I sighed.

‘Is your dog a likkle bitch? Do you ‘ave anal wiv her?’ This made them all laugh riotously.

I considered my reply carefully. ‘There are five thousand comedians on the dole in the United Kingdom and you’re making a joke? Shame on you, young fellow.’

‘Eh?’

I delivered next a compliment of questionable sincerity. ‘Personally, I think you are hilarious – a comedy genius. But many would think you callous, that you are doing honest and hard-working comics of this country out of a job with your amusing remarks.’

‘Are you gay?’ Again, much laughter.

I gave up.

We headed home via the footpath that circles the old colliery swimming baths. ‘I fancy a big cup of Earl Grey and one of those lovely scones from the Co-op when we get back to the house. Come on, girl, hurry up.’

Looking at me sadly with her big brown eyes, she seemed to say: ‘I am a bitch, you know.’

‘Only words,’ I reassured her. ‘Only words.’

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House Party

by Enormous on August 5, 2009

The violent monkey-man who lived next door has moved out.

He had a ‘party’ with some of his stylish gentleman friends on Saturday night to celebrate his departure. It got very out of hand. There was noise, destruction on a grand scale and intimidation on a small scale.

He and and mates from ‘oop narth’ managed to: play drum-and-bass music loud enough to shake the foundations of the houses of his neighbours (including me) until three o’clock in the morning; destroy the fence that separates his garden from mine and, along with the new pine decking from his neighbour on the other side, burn it in a big bonfire; and threaten the wife of the aforementioned neighbour-on-the-other-side with a tight fist and gnashing teeth if she even thought about calling the police.

She didn’t call the police. Neither did I. We were too frightened to get involved.

The next morning we surveyed the damage together and decided that it could have been a lot worse. No one was injured and our houses escaped with only minor damage considering the fury of the ‘celebrations’.

‘That’s life,’ she told me.

I had to agree with ironic resignation that sadly, these days, it often is.

Crowds of gloating onlookers gathered throughout the day on Sunday to tut and shake their heads in arch wonder.

Along with the general Mongol Hordes of the village and their mentally disabled children, there was a constant stream of squawking teenagers whose comments had a sad calculation to them. ‘Not so clever now, are we?’ one of them shouted at me as I was picking up empty bottles, bricks and pieces of stained wood that once constituted my garden fence. He smiled broadly at his girlfriend as if he had just uttered the most profound and hilarious comment ever known in the history of mankind.

‘Oh go home and tidy your hormones,’ I told him, drily.

I think he probably did.

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Sex Education

by Enormous on August 1, 2009

‘You look well, Reg. Are you managing to stay of the booze?’

‘I am a bit, as it happens. Have you heard those kids over there?’ He pointed towards the teenagers that gather around the bandstand on the rec’. ‘Effing and blinding like nobody’s business. Lots of sexual swear words – stuff I haven’t heard since my army days. Some of them are only about ten and eleven years old. It makes you wonder where they pick it up, doesn’t it.’

‘School,’ I told him. ‘Or in the home. Their parents are just as bad.’

‘I blame the schools,’ he informed me. ‘Sex education for five year-olds? What the hell is that all about?’

‘Well, I imagine it’s just basic theory and anatomy. The teachers don’t provide practical demonstrations as such.’

‘It wouldn’t surprise me. The things that kids get told these days.’ He made a loud huffing sound and shook his head in mock despair.

‘You have to refer to them as “little adults”.’ I told him.

‘Mind you in my day, it was even worse, Davy. I never got told anything about the birds and the bees and that. My father took me to one side when I was thirteen and told me that the man goes on the top and the woman goes on the bottom – that was the only sex education I received.’

‘Well, it was probably sufficient, wasn’t it?’ I couldn’t help laughing.

‘Not really, Davy, no. When me and my wife got married, we spent the first five years sleeping in bunk beds.’

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Telling Teenage Fortunes

by Enormous on July 29, 2009

No.45

One rainy afternoon when you are showering and changing after a farcical game of rugby, your PE teacher will inform you and your male classmates that, for health reasons, the wearing of boxer shorts should be universally abandoned in favour of ‘tighty-whities’.

To your dismay and confusion, he will parade up and down in front of you all to demonstrate how handsome and beguiling a grown man can look when attired in such undergarments.

This peculiar behaviour will eventually be reported to the headmaster who will later relieve your PE teacher of his employ at the school. You will smile to yourself with quiet satisfaction on hearing this news. Inside, you will be laughing with glee like this: ‘Hee hee hee!’

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