Gerry
12-20-2007, 07:39 PM
From my earliest days one thing I always learnt from my Dad was that he hated bad manners and swearing. Now if he ever encountered the two together it was a case of keep your head down because things were about to fly.
I was at our local football ground one day with him, back when I was small enough to be lifted over the turnstiles, so that my Dad didn't have to pay for me. In our wee town everybody seemed to know my Dad and he spent more time saying how are you than I did saying, who was that, but that was because I got fed up asking who was that every few steps.
We got settled down to enjoy the game when a crowd of big men wearing the colours of that crowd our team hated came wandering in with cans of beer in their hands and singing songs I couldn't understand. They stood at the font of the seats and I couldn't see much past them but I knew from the cheer that our team had just run out onto the pitch. Well the guys in the other teams colours started swearing like I'd never heard before. They didn't just use swear words. It was their way of spitting venom at their targets.
Without a word being spoken my Dad stood up and slowly went down the steps past rows so well mannered seated fans all terrified by the swearing mob. My Dad tapped this big hairy monster on the shoulder and he didn't even look round before he spouted a mouthful of poison aimed at my Dad. With this the tap became a bit firmer. Well when I say a bit, I mean quite a bit and this time the tap wasn't on his broad shoulders but more like just under his ample rib cage. I could feel the guys kidneys explode from four rows back.
He went down like a bag of ****e, (sorry for the bad language Dad),and with that his mates realised that this wee man had just floored their hardest man and hadn't even raised his voice.
Common sense oozed along that row of guys like a big jar of yellow custard having been poured over their heads. That big yellow streak had them all seated and silent before the referee had blown the whistle to start the game and the first aiders had carried out the hairy monster that they were convinced had lost control of his bladder due to taking some sort of seizure or fit.
Needless to say I don't think my Dad has ever heard me issue even the mildest of swear words and I don't accompany him to football matches.
By Gerry Temple
I was at our local football ground one day with him, back when I was small enough to be lifted over the turnstiles, so that my Dad didn't have to pay for me. In our wee town everybody seemed to know my Dad and he spent more time saying how are you than I did saying, who was that, but that was because I got fed up asking who was that every few steps.
We got settled down to enjoy the game when a crowd of big men wearing the colours of that crowd our team hated came wandering in with cans of beer in their hands and singing songs I couldn't understand. They stood at the font of the seats and I couldn't see much past them but I knew from the cheer that our team had just run out onto the pitch. Well the guys in the other teams colours started swearing like I'd never heard before. They didn't just use swear words. It was their way of spitting venom at their targets.
Without a word being spoken my Dad stood up and slowly went down the steps past rows so well mannered seated fans all terrified by the swearing mob. My Dad tapped this big hairy monster on the shoulder and he didn't even look round before he spouted a mouthful of poison aimed at my Dad. With this the tap became a bit firmer. Well when I say a bit, I mean quite a bit and this time the tap wasn't on his broad shoulders but more like just under his ample rib cage. I could feel the guys kidneys explode from four rows back.
He went down like a bag of ****e, (sorry for the bad language Dad),and with that his mates realised that this wee man had just floored their hardest man and hadn't even raised his voice.
Common sense oozed along that row of guys like a big jar of yellow custard having been poured over their heads. That big yellow streak had them all seated and silent before the referee had blown the whistle to start the game and the first aiders had carried out the hairy monster that they were convinced had lost control of his bladder due to taking some sort of seizure or fit.
Needless to say I don't think my Dad has ever heard me issue even the mildest of swear words and I don't accompany him to football matches.
By Gerry Temple