Tag Archives: swearing

My Punchable Face…

…Or ‘My Expletive and Dwarf-laden journey home…’ (Certain words have been substituted to give this a PG-13(ish) rating).

Aldgate station, London 17:45, usually quiet, on this particular occasion – rammed to the gills: ‘We apologise for the congestion,’ droned the tannoy, ‘This was caused by a fight on a train and subsequent cancellations.’

A cursory glance at the board told me that I wasn’t getting home via the conventional route. I took the next available train going west and changed at Baker Street. As I reached the start of the escalator an incredibly short man cut in front and tripped over my feet. Temper-wise he went from zero to a zillion within the space of a nanosecond – peppering me with a barrage of C-bombs and spectacularly overreacting.

‘Charming,’ I replied like an imbecile. Further C-bombs abounded.

In addition to the man’s height deficiency he was also three rungs below me. As such my genitals bore the brunt of his fury;  an overarching thought throughout: I am perfectly positioned to kick you right in the face…but I’m not going to do that. Sure, you look like a midget with a Napoleon complex, but you might be a ninja. I can’t go out like that. It would be like choking on a marshmallow or getting run over by a segue.

A voice from behind came to my aid: ‘Mate, calm down, I saw – It was an accident – you pushed in.’ I turned. The voice belonged to a man in a three-piece suit

‘Well you can funf yourself as well,’ screamed the ninja.


Napoleon stormed off leaving me a little shaken.

‘Don’t worry about it mate,’ reassured Three-piece, ‘guy’s a douche – you handled it well.’


‘I would’ve hit him!’

‘Fair enough.’

Far below Napoleon had clearly decided our encounter wasn’t over and was waiting for me at the bottom of the escalator.

‘If you ever deliberately trip me again I will slit your throat you C-bomb.’

‘Mate, it’s been a long day – I’m not doing this.’

‘You’ll do what I funfing well tell you you’ve doing.’

‘OK…’ I went to the right side of the platform, as did Three-piece. Napoleon followed.

Together we tried to placate the little man whilst he continued threatening and bombarding us with abuse. Eventually he lost interest and started to walk away.

‘Jeez,’ sighed Three-piece. ‘I bet you wished you’d pushed him down the escalator.’

‘What did you funfing say?’

‘Oh c’mon! No one can be this angry!’

The train arrived, packed to the rafters. No one got on board. It pulled away leaving us on the platform.

‘Yeah,’ snarled Napoleon, ‘you thought you’d escaped, but now you’re stuck with me.’

Three-piece made a strange noise. I looked to him and saw that he was laughing his ass off. He set me off.

‘This isn’t funfing funny!’ Napoleon declared.

‘It’s quite funny,’ Three-piece responded.

‘This is ridiculous,’ I added. ‘You’re ridiculous. Why are you so aggressive?’

‘If you don’t stop laughing…’

Before I knew what I was saying I’d stepped up to him. ‘I tell you what – Throw down or f*&% off.’

‘Oh, you want we to throw down? I’ll funfing throw down. I’ll throw you off the funfing earth.’

I am living proof that it is possible to find something hilarious whilst also fearing for your wellbeing. ‘No, I don’t want you to throw down. I want you to go away.’

Another train arrived. The three of us got into the same carriage and stood staring at one another for the next ten minutes . It was the closest I’ve ever come to an out of body experience in that I could sense how smug I must look, but was powerful to wipe the provocation from my lips. Three-Piece was clearly having the same issue.

At Paddington the two normal-sized people alighted.

‘Bye C-BOMBS!’ Napoleon yelled.

If I was going to smack him I’d left it a little late. I looked at Three-piece. He gave me a cheeky wink.

‘BYYYEEE,’ we both waved euphorically.

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No holds barred bare-knucked geriatric cage fighting

Can knocking an elderly woman to the ground ever be truly justified?

Now bear with me…

Until recently I would have been first in the queue valiantly defending the wellbeing of our senior citizens. However, two weeks ago I found myself backed up against a wall; my arms raised in order to block the jabs of a vicious attack. My assailant – a 75-year old woman – slipper-clad and standing on tip toes so that her head reached all the way up to my belly button. Her fingers probed my ribs as she bombarded me with a barrage of expletives whilst her husband stood next to her; his sleeves rolled up revealing cliche-inducing anchor tattoos. I wasn’t yet clear what all the fuss was about. It seemed to be something to do with not having answered my front door quick enough and partly to do with how I’d parked my car, but there also something about my grass being too long and a swear-peppered rant about how many times I’d put the wrong bin out.

Over the road a crew of workmen had stopped digging and were watching the scene unfold with a growing sense of incredulous joy. One of them made a hand gesture that implied I should crack her in the chops; egging me on in a way I felt certain would later prove unhelpful in explaining my actions to a judge.
I am not exaggerating any of this for comedic effect. This is verbatim. Ladies and gentlemen: meet my next door neighbours – a couple of proper old school sexist, racist, self-righteous, indignant, hiding in a bungalow and unaware of the last 30 years types.
‘Next time I knock on your effing door, you effing open it.’
‘Surely it’s my prerogative as to whether or not I want to receive visitors?’
‘Don’t you answer my wife back you effing effer,’ roared the husband.
‘You’re both being very rude,’ I countered. ‘I can assure you that I can be ruder than the two of you put together, but I’d rather not, especially seeing as we don’t seem to be arguing about anything important.’
‘You were very rude to me the other day,’ the woman shouted. ‘You called me nosey.
‘Do you mean the time I caught you peering through a letterbox and declaring ‘They’ll never get the asking price with that wallpaper’?’ I replied. The retort was met with further abuse and posturing.
A bit of context: Earlier in the year the pair had come over to berate me for having an extension that blocks the light from their kitchen. I pointed out that the building had been erected before I was born and that I therefore couldn’t be held accountable for any decisions made. More importantly, having held a grudge for 40-odd years I suggested that it was possibly time to let it go. Other complaints have included ‘I don’t like the colour you’ve painted your house,’ and ‘I don’t like you talking to the woman next door as she’s clearly a prostitute. If you go round, try and keep your pants on.’
I’d love to say that I endured the onslaught with good grace and took the moral high-ground, but in truth I felt a red light go on in my head, and holding my diaphragm I screamed something so spectacularly offensive that they were both stunned into silence. I would be ashamed to repeat the phrase. Suffice to say that, in the intervening days, I have been unable to think of anything more vulgar. What a joy it was to see the husband’s gut-reflex betray him. Instinctually a shocked chuckle escaped his lips, drawing the full force of his wife’s glare.
I seized upon the moment. ‘Look, the 3 of us have a combined age of 186 and here we hurling insults in the street. Can’t we simply agree that we have different priorities and need to be better at considering each other opinions?’
Reluctantly they accepted that they could.
‘Great,’ I concluded with a sense of mature fulfilment, ‘Now f$c& off.’

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