INNER BOLLOCKS
I was first introduced to the concept of inner bollocks by my dear friend D, whose cousin had used the term in reference to a fruitless night he'd spent trying to seduce an attractive companion by feigning a sensitive, New Man kind of approachability. "What did you talk to her about?" D had asked earnestly the next morning. "Oh, you know," his cousin had muttered cynically, "inner bollocks."
The meaning of the term now having widened, it has come to represent not only what women refer to as feelings, but also any kind of mental labour, or philosophising. Having recently acquired a copy of Julian Baggini's The Pig That Wants to be Eaten, a volume that includes some inner bollocks of the highest order, I have been inspired to add my own thought experiment to his list of 99 "mind-boggling tales from the outer limit of thought" (The Guardian).
Should we feel sympathy for the victims of bar violence?
A short time ago, a new bar/nightclub opened at the bottom of our tree-lined avenue. Literally weeks after its inauguration, the town awoke to find a young man with a fatal gunshot wound to the head a short distance away from said establishment, the victim having last been seen by witnesses gettin' jiggy wi' it (whatever that means) inside with an unidentified femme fatale, (no pun intended). A typical wild west tale of liquor, poker and messing with the wrong woman, without the poker and possibly only with soft drinks.
As far as I know, there were no witnesses to the dispute that ended in gunfire, and the perpetrator of the hideous act has yet to be identified, let alone cautioned for disturbing the peace by firing a gun after eleven pm.
Given these facts, I wouldn't go near the place, not even to rescue a litter of puppies from a raging fire. Moreover, those that do frequent the locale, knowing that there's a mad killer on the loose apt to show his displeasure my shooting at peoples' heads, are clearly of the opinion that the chance of a fling with a succulent morena outweighs the possibility of being fatally killed on the way home.
Thus my contention: the buggers are asking for it, in my opinion. Only people expecting to be a victim, or the cause, of violence, or willing to face the very real possibility of it, would be so rash as to spend an evening at that nightspot.
If they went to the cinema instead, or a nice restaurant (São Paulo in particular has some excellent eateries), life would be so much more civilised and bullet-free for all of us.
The meaning of the term now having widened, it has come to represent not only what women refer to as feelings, but also any kind of mental labour, or philosophising. Having recently acquired a copy of Julian Baggini's The Pig That Wants to be Eaten, a volume that includes some inner bollocks of the highest order, I have been inspired to add my own thought experiment to his list of 99 "mind-boggling tales from the outer limit of thought" (The Guardian).Should we feel sympathy for the victims of bar violence?
A short time ago, a new bar/nightclub opened at the bottom of our tree-lined avenue. Literally weeks after its inauguration, the town awoke to find a young man with a fatal gunshot wound to the head a short distance away from said establishment, the victim having last been seen by witnesses gettin' jiggy wi' it (whatever that means) inside with an unidentified femme fatale, (no pun intended). A typical wild west tale of liquor, poker and messing with the wrong woman, without the poker and possibly only with soft drinks.
As far as I know, there were no witnesses to the dispute that ended in gunfire, and the perpetrator of the hideous act has yet to be identified, let alone cautioned for disturbing the peace by firing a gun after eleven pm.
Given these facts, I wouldn't go near the place, not even to rescue a litter of puppies from a raging fire. Moreover, those that do frequent the locale, knowing that there's a mad killer on the loose apt to show his displeasure my shooting at peoples' heads, are clearly of the opinion that the chance of a fling with a succulent morena outweighs the possibility of being fatally killed on the way home.
Thus my contention: the buggers are asking for it, in my opinion. Only people expecting to be a victim, or the cause, of violence, or willing to face the very real possibility of it, would be so rash as to spend an evening at that nightspot.
If they went to the cinema instead, or a nice restaurant (São Paulo in particular has some excellent eateries), life would be so much more civilised and bullet-free for all of us.
posted by M C Ward | 08:39
7 Comments:
Maybe they get many more gunshot fatalities in the place from whence they've travelled to this bar. Still scary though.
I really thought this piece was going to be about sumo wrestlers (tucking their bollocks inside them, and stuff).
It's nice to know I still have the capacity to surprise ;>)
Well really, such language, and such upsetting content. I could scarce get beyond the title. Revenons a nos moutons as the French have it, and let us dwell on gentler vistas, such as local customs, langoustines, Dutch Elm Disease and Miss Petula Clarke. Surely there is enough there to energise even the most jaded pen. Yours in haste, Mrs Pouncer
Reminds me of The Deakin Defence, as used repeatedly at courts martial by Capt Peter Beauregarde D'Arcy Deakin of the V Baluchi Lancers, namely:
"I oughtn't ter have done it, but I did it anyway. Let his'try be m'judge".
A lost cause is the only one an Englishman will fight for, and the same seems to go for Paulistas in rut.
Mrs Pouncer, I have to admit it is a rather more hard-hitting post than I am accustomed to pen, but some things just have to be said eventually. And while you're quoting the French, les Parisiens have a long and perhaps questionable tradition of debating inner bollocks in cafés.
NGB, was that Deakin vs The Crown? Was he part of the Black Hole of Calcutta shenanigans too?
I liked the gritty realism of this post, MC; but, and I know I'm being selfish here, my tastebuds were set slavering for something else... Mrs Pouncer, I was trying to drum up support on Gorilla Bananas' blog recently for Ladies' Sumo and, don't take this wrong way, but with your indomitable spirit and bold fashion sense might you be tempted to consider this another string to you bow? You'd have to put on a few pounds, but I'm sure you'd still be admired by all the right sort of people. The English Gentlewoman needs an outlet for her energies now that fox-hunting and balaclava knitting are things of the past.
Rev vs Deakin as usual. He was too late for Calcutta, but was personally responsible for The Black Hole That Was Formerly The Village of Bandar Chod, Baluchistan. His involvement in the chèvre pneumatique incident is still subject to a 70-year Records Office embargo.
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