A Halifax History of Curse Words
Larry O’Neal
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INT. VICTORIA THEATRE, HALIFAX - NIGHT
SUPER: Halifax, England. July 30, 1949.
SIR ARWYN BOWDERCROFT, a proper and portly English gentleman in a Victorian tweed suit and sporting an extravagant mustache, waddles to the lectern centerstage to address the lords and ladies at their dinner tables.
He bows to the applauding audience, taps the microphone, clears his throat…
BOWDERCROFT
Good evening, motherfuckers.
The audience members audibly gasp and drop their dessert spoons.
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FROM THE DIARY OF
MRS. PRIMROSE VANDERKAAY
30 July 1949
Dear Diary,
Normally the biannual presentations by the Halifax Antiquarian Society are informative and provocative. Tonight’s was positively profane. Unbeknownst to us, Sir Arwyn, consistently a beacon of decorum and civility, chose as his lecture topic “A Halifax History of Curse Words.” Imagine our revulsion at such an unseemly proposition in genteel society. I demanded Rupert take me home at once, that I’d not hear a word on this vile and inappropriate subject, yet he insisted on finishing his trifle and berries first.
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BOWDERCROFT
Across the long reach of recorded history, mankind has employed—shall we say colorful—language to express himself. But from where do such words originate? How are they adapted by communities not unlike our own minster and market town within the Calderdale Metropolitan Borough? To begin our etymological journey this evening by reciting a lovely poem on the subject, please welcome the young students of Mrs. Wyndham’s fourth year class at Hebden Royd CE School.
MRS. WYNDHAM ushers to the stage a gaggle of prim youngsters.
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Our Halifax
In Halifax George Savile did
A thriving mill town so proclaim:
Where River Calder flowed amid
Each cotton field and cartwheel skid
Down to a cricket game.
But long ere commerce did abound
And Saint John’s head lay underground,
Germanic tribes and people from
The North, as well as Celts and Swiss
Thus, left us words that would become
Our ‘Fuck’ and ‘Shit’ and ‘Cunt’ and ‘Piss.’
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It did not take long for the vulgarities to commence, and to say I was mortified by a group of young school children reciting a poem of such filthy language to make the lustiest of backstreet ruffians blush would be an understatement. I implored Rupert to show some moxie and protest these proceedings; however, by that time he was helping himself to my dessert and could not be inconvenienced with my displeasure. I knew I would have to take matters into my own hands were I to see these offenses cease.
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Mrs. Wyndham leads the children offstage as Bowdercroft applauds and steps again to the lectern.
BOWDERCROFT
Delightful. Or as the Dutch would say, fokken delightful, yes? Because the curse word fuck is thought to be a linguistic derivation of the Dutch word meaning ‘to mock.’ Fokken. As in, don’t fokken mock me, asshole.
Some nervous laughs and throat-clearing emanate from the floor. MRS. PRIMROSE VANDERKAAY stands and addresses Bowdercroft.
PRIMROSE VANDERKAAY
I say, Mister Bowdercroft. I find this subject matter most distasteful. And I hasten to believe the other guests do as well.
BOWDERCROFT
Ah, Mrs. Vanderkaay. One of our most generous donors. While I appreciate your concern, I assure you tonight’s presentation is purely educational, as our society exists but to research, record and preserve the long and storied history of the Borough of Calderdale.
PRIMROSE
I understand, Mister Bowdercroft, but might it be done without the profanity?
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I shan’t befoul the pages of my diary with the obscenities “Sir” Arwyn Bowdercroft bestowed upon me in the original Germanic, French, Scandinavian and Anglo-Norman dialects, but suffice it to say, my honor was indisputably challenged. “Rupert,” I said, “are you going to sit idly by and let this salacious boor impugn my character?” And he did!
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BOWDERCROFT
Now, ladies and gentlemen, direct your attention stage right for a dramatic presentation by the West Yorkshire Dickens Theatre Players.
Heads turn as lights come up on a rustic set…
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A VERY RIBALD CHRISTMAS CAROL
Adapted from the Works of Charles Dickens
SETTING: EBENEEZER SCROOGE sits on a cold, dark night at a low table beside a fireplace. He counts his neatly stacked money until he hears an eerie clanking noise.
SCROOGE. Humbug.
Scrooge returns to his counting when JACOB MARLEY’S
GHOST clomps into view.
SCROOGE. How now! What do you want with me? Who are you?
MARLEY. Ask me who I was.
SCROOGE. Who were you then?
MARLEY. In life I was your partner, Jacob Marley.
SCROOGE. Mercy, apparition! Why do you trouble me?
MARLEY. My time is nearly gone, Ebeneezer. I have come to tell you such that you will be haunted this night by Three Spirits.
SCROOGE. I—I think I’d rather not.
MARLEY. Without their visits, you cannot hope to shun the path I tread.
SCROOGE. And who are these Spirits, Jacob. Tell me.
MARLEY. The first, the Ghost of Curse Word Shit. Second, the Ghost of Curse Word Fuck. And last, the Ghost of Curse Word Asshole. They will teach you the true meaning of profanity.
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PRIMROSE
Mister Bowdercroft! I implore you to stop this nonsense at once! How dare you denigrate the work of Sir Charles Dickens with this putrid filth!
BOWDERCROFT
Mrs. Vanderkaay, I assure you the point of this evening’s program is to highlight the evolution of language—
PRIMROSE
Rupert! Stand up for yourself! Tell Mister Bowdercroft what an affront this presentation is to your sensibilities!
RUPERT VANDERKAAY
Now now, dear. I’m rather enjoying the program. Sit down, darling. Do try the trifle. It’s delectable. More wine?
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Diary, I have packed my overnight bag and called for Hodgson to transport me by motorcar to Glynnis’s in Leeds. My marriage has become untenable. The Rupert I married in 1927 is no longer the man I thought he was. His behaviour this evening was beyond disgraceful! When Sir Arwyn brought that band of musical hooligans onto the stage, Rupert positively waltzed around the theater like a drunken gypsy! I had never been so humiliated in all my life.
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BOWDERCROFT
We often hear the expression “He can curse like a sailor.” But what does that pithy aphorism really mean? How do sailors learn the art of cursing? Turns out there’s a book! Here to sing us a ballad about this legendary tome, all the way from the Britannia Royal Naval College in Dartmouth, where profanity has become a true artform, please welcome the Rough Seas Men’s Maritime Band.
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Rough Seas Men’s Maritime Band (unsanctioned)
Vocals: Chester Babcock
Accordion: Milton C. Cowper
Guitar: Benjamin “Fingers” Swayze
Electrical guitar: Tanner Skeinwater
Upright bass: Vernon G. Westerbrook
Percussion: Moreland Verhoeven
Fiddle: “Catgut” Charles Summerfield
Trumpet: Norman Cheswick
Ukulele: Dabney Gilquist
Men’s chorus: Archibald Chittenham, P.J. McDonough, Dane Carver, Randall Crabbot
A SAILOR’S GUIDE TO CURSING
(A Sea Shanty)
Anchors aweigh in the morning
Ready a bowline knot
Call out ahoy to the cabin boy
And fire a warning shot
Kissing the gunner’s daughter
No room to swing a cat
Bludgeoned till dead with a loggerhead
No place for an old wharf rat
A crew of underachievers with Cape Horn fever
They’re falling just like dominoes
Let ‘em all sleep fifty fathoms deep
Steady as she goes
But A Sailor’s Guide to Cursing
Will keep ‘em on their toes
Clear a broad path for the admiral
All hands report to deck
Caught unawares as the captain swears
He’ll wring your scrawny neck
Sailor, assume the position
Prepare to be bound and flogged
Tied with a cord and thrown overboard
Till you’re good and waterlogged
Because come hell or high water or routine manslaughter
A few drunken swabs won’t be missed
Shut up and fly to the topmast high
Climbing hand over fist
Put A Sailor’s Guide to Cursing
On your summer reading list
There’s a legend ‘round here that’ll fill you with fear
‘Bout a sailor we hanged as a sinner,
Let him dangle a week till he started to reek
And his carcass became seagull dinner.
So we cut down the creep, threw his corpse in the deep,
Said a prayer for the saints to preserve us,
But the very next night, in the milky moonlight
The whole crew grew seditious and nervous.
‘Cause the sailor we’d hung once again grimly swung
From the yardarm; we hadn’t been drinking,
And some of the men swore again and again
They were sure that they saw the bloke winking!
The crew dropped to their knees, never on the high seas
Had they viewed such a phantom occurrence,
So we wrapped him in chains, cursed his mortal remains,
Drove a stake through his heart for insurance.
Tossed him back in the waves, ‘midst the watery graves
Meant for vile mutineers and offenders,
But to his great delight he returned every night
Till the crew screamed in fear, “We surrender!”
One by one the crew met with a horrible death,
Each succumbing to plague and miasma!
In a raging squall line from the depths of the brine
Rose an army of vengeful phantasma!
Every sailor restored who’d been thrown overboard
Filled the crewmen remaining with terror!
The demon souls howled and the night air befouled,
As commanded by the hanged seafarer!
At last ‘twas but me left among the debris
Of the ship I ruled with controversy.
And the ghouls did surround, to the mast I was bound,
And the hanged sailor said, “Beg for mercy!”
It’s with pride I can say I survive to this day,
Because of the art form I’d mastered.
I looked that dead guy right square in the eye
And said, “Fuck you, you bastard.”
Prepare for a good keelhauling
Down to a watery grave
Sink or swim, either choice is grim
Teach you to misbehave
You can’t dance in heavy leg irons
Can’t outrun a cannon shot
But you’ll dangle and die from the yardarm high
Leave your carcass to twist and rot
Well, you may grumble and mutter, obscenities utter
But sailor, you’re bush league or worse
You wanna speak nautical English
Rehearse, rehearse, rehearse
‘Cause A Sailor’s Guide to Cursing
Will teach you to converse
Yeah, A Sailor’s Guide to Cursing
Will teach you to converse
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FROM THE DIARY OF
MRS. PRIMROSE VANDERKAAY
13 August 1949
Dear Diary,
What a fortnight it’s been since we last conversed! I’ve had the luxury of time and distance with which to evaluate my marriage and direction in life. The freethinking Glynnis has helped me put things in perspective and opened my eyes to the dawn of a new women’s movement on the horizon! The Victorian era is over! No more repression. No more airs and arrogance. No more high-society dinner parties and pageants. And especially no more Mr Rupert W. Vanderkaay. Seriously. Fuck him.
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LARRY O’NEAL is the author of several stories published in offbeat literary journals. As a singer-songwriter, his humorous, absurdist songs are available online. He’s worked as a creative writer for toy, gaming, amusement and water park companies. O’Neal’s love of the quirky is imbued in much of his writing projects.