Fucking Rain

..
sound of rain relentlessly thundering down on my roof – and filtering
down through the loungeroom ceiling into my now inadequate symphony of pots
and pans and thudding damply onto the attractive pooh-brown carpet.
I realised that I was far too annoyed to go back to sleep, and concluded that
the light was only going to get marginally better if I waited anyway, so I retrieved
the step ladder from the shed, armed myself with my roll of gaffer and my stage
torch and clambered back into that mysterious space between my life on earth
and the hostile elements swirling around in the outside world.
Gaffer’s two mortal enemies, dust and water, were both in abundance and
made it a very tricky task, and operating in a crouched position with a rubber-coated
torch in your mouth makes you appreciate the stirling work done by the city’s
valiant army of sex workers, but after an hour I realised there was simply nothing
more left to gaffer and I just had to hope that it was enough to hold back the
torrents threatening my reasonably comfortable existence.
I’m happy to report that the gaffer has indeed held so far, and I expect
that it should hold now for another six months, at which time I’ll have
to figure out something a little more permanent.
But I haven’t got to the point yet. I picked up my son Chris at 11.30
that same morning, planning to do a little shopping, (which, as usual, didn’t
interest Chris in the slightest till I bought the bag of generic licorice allsorts),
dropped the shopping off home, (where I trimmed Chris’ Howard Hughesian
finger nails), grabbed a hot chocolate at Choclatté (where Adam donated
a couple of macadamia nut chocolates and lemon tart slices), and headed off
to the Jam Factory to catch a movie.
The movie was Death At A Funeral, which David and Margaret quite liked,
but which The Age’s review was quite scathing about. It was a comedy anyway,
and I think Chris prefers comedies. Mind you, Chris never really says if he
likes anything or not – you have to read his reactions. He rarely answers
direct questions about anything, so working out his preferences an act of patience
for both parties.
So, there we are, at the movie. Chris is eyeing off the licorice allsorts and
the movie has started. I won’t bother to go into too much detail. Suffice
to say, that for me at any rate, the movie never rises above the level of a
16th century farce, but without any of that genre’s wit and invention.,
which I can say definitively, never having seen one. It did signal one thing
to me however; we’ve now reached a point in general entertainment that
I suspected we would eventually reach during my lifetime, so I’m grateful
for that.
The point is this; it’s language. To be more specific, it’s what
we used to call bad language, and it’s something that’s
been used as a stock-in-trade, shock-value laugh in entertainment forever. Remember
the stage show of My Fair Lady when Eliza spontaneously shouts, ‘Move
yer bloody arse!’ at the Ascot races? (From memory, the movie version
went with ‘bloomin’ rather than ‘bloody’, perhaps in
deference to American speakers).
I have to tell you that in the Funeral movie, everybody uses ‘fuck’,
‘fucked’ and ‘fucking’ in conversation to the point
of absolute monotony – it’s like some sort of bizarre catharsis it’s
so laboured. Curiously, David and Margaret made no mention of it, or maybe it’s
just that I’m completely behind the times. The film’s equivalent
of Eliza’s embarrassing bon mot is when the vicar, the only character
not to say ‘fuck’, hisses ‘Christ!’ to only the tiniest
titter of recognition from the audience.
Where do we go from here? Can we get a cheap laugh out of the repeated use of
less celebrated body parts, like ‘sphincter’ for instance? The most
appropriate response to this pivotal (for me, at least) question is naturally;
fucked if I know.
Interestingly, Chris actually responded in a bold, clear voice to questions
asked by characters on the screen at least three times. That was the best part
of the movie for me by several miles, but, of course, leaves me none the wiser.
About anything. I say again – fucked if I know..