And now for a repost from June 2010….
Vuvuzela – now here’s a word I will practice before saying in public. It is a word to be rolled around the tongue and swiftly blown. And not to be said with your mouth full.
As a child I was prone to verbal mishaps, mostly my mistakes were gently corrected, laughed at or ignored. Denim became deminimum and aluminium became aluminiminimummmn. I tried never to mention Birmingham and would often find myself steering the conversation towards Manchester. Like many children I had a problem with the Grand Prix, and of course with that well known car manufacturing firm…
It was a special occasion, friends and relatives were coming for Sunday tea; Mum had opened a fresh can of spam and had baked a Victoria sponge. She’d also done a salad and some other boring stuff featuring pineapple chunks and half a grapefruit. As we sat around the dining table my Aunt began to tell us about her brand new car, marvelling over its luxurious leather interior and its faux wooden dashboard. I could see it through the window parked on our driveway – new, red, and very shiny. I was most impressed. Loudly and enthusiastically I asked, ‘Dad, when are you going to get a big vulva like Auntie Pam’s?’
Such a shame that my Uncle had just popped a pickled onion into his mouth, but at least his choking provided a welcome distraction….