Call Me?

The really wonderful thing about writing this blog is that people anywhere in the world can read it, so for all of you out there who take the time to read my inane rants, thank you!

But there is a problem that I’m finding when writing for people whose first language may not be English; rude words. Different words mean different things all around the world. To prove this, I would like you to read this poem from my first book, ‘The Spot On My Bum’.

My Name Is?

Oh, I wish I was called Lynne

Or Gemma or Lucy.

Any name will do,

I’m really not that choosy.

They could call me Charlotte,

Or Emma or Jane.

They could call me anything,

Please just give me another name.

Yes, Mum could have named me

By lots of names,

From Kirsty to Annie,

But she went and named me after Grandma,

She went and named me Fanny!

Now if you’re not British, you might not get the joke; lots of British people will either think it’s rude or funny depending on your sense of humour. 

One thing you must understand is that we British have lots of names for certain body parts. When it comes to genitalia, we probably lead the world for the most names. It makes no difference whether it’s male or female, different people use different words for their genitalia. But when it comes to the female genitalia the most common name by far is… yes you’ve guessed it, Fanny!

But just to confuse things even further, in America your backside is called your Fanny! In Britain a bum is your backside. In America a bum is a tramp. In Britain we have a bum bag, in America, they call it a fanny bag. This is something completely different in Britain.

My Father, in the ;fifties, was posted to Düsseldorf in Germany for his national service. While he was there he became very good friends with a local lad called Billy. My Father often spoke about Billy to the day he died in 2006. I could never understand why he didn’t try to trace him and get back in touch. But that was my Father , he didn’t like a complicated life.

Now here in Britain Billy is a very common name, nothing unusual about that. Except Billy’s full name was Billy Shite! Trust me, you don’t want that surname in Britain. I’m led to believe that it’s quite a common name in Germany. I don’t know if that’s the correct spelling, though, but when I was ten years old that was the funniest name in the world. If you don’t know what shite means in English, look it up.

Once when I was having problems with my local council about drainage I received a really snotty letter from a council employee; the letter was signed Richard Head.

Again if English is not your first language you wont get the joke immediately.

The old English word for Richard is Dick. Richard Head = Dick Head!  Again if you don’t get the joke, look it up. 

Now the reason I’m going on about all this is because here in Britain there is a commercial for a brand of pop, mineral water, soda pop, again, it  depends where you’re from.

In the commercial the mother and Grand mother of a new born child insist on naming their new child Fanny!

When I go into high schools, I sometimes read the above poem, which often gets me into trouble, so it’s good to see it being used on prime-time television. Well, it’s not just the poem that causes me problems; you see, there’s a story that goes with it.

When I was young I used to stay with my Grandparents. On Friday evenings a bus used to call around the neighbourhood and pick up all the old ladies and whisk them off to play Bingo, lotto, tombola - again, it depends where you are from.

One Friday evening, I had the misfortune of having to go with my grandma. Although I loved her to bits, a night at the bingo was more than my little mind could take. The weather outside was blowing a blizzard and we were dressed ready for the worst. We walked up the road to catch the bus and to meet with my Grandma’s friend, Mrs Roberts. When we arrived at the bus stop Mrs Roberts was already there with her sixteen year old daughter, called Fanny. 

Fanny, like all sixteen-year-old girls, was more interested in fashion than keeping warm she wore nothing more than a flimsy dress and a cardigan. The wind howled and the snow bit at our extremities. Because my Grandmother was Italian, she had a very strange way of speaking English. 

She looked at Mrs Roberts, then looked at her daughter called Fanny. Again she looked at Mrs Roberts, then at her daughter called Fanny.

Finally she turned to Mrs Roberts and said, “Oh Mrs Roberts, your Fanny must be frozen, dressed like that!”

I think it might be the story that gets me into trouble!