by Rufus Lodge
But for the British chattering classes, both these references have paled into insignificance alongside a printed reference to ‘fuck-me shoes’. It originated in a newspaper spat between two columnists from different generations, each of a firmly feminist bent, but each reserving the right to carve her own idiosyncratic path through the jungle of political correctness. Germaine Greer was a controversialist with nearly three decades of experience by the time she clashed with Suzanne Moore, a relative neophyte by comparison. They fell out, ostensibly, over Moore’s references in a newspaper to Greer’s sexual and gynaecological history; and in reply, Greer painted an acerbic verbal portrait of her antagonist, castigating Moore in a rather unfeminist fashion for her ‘hair birds-nested all over the place, fuck-me shoes and three fat layers of cleavage’. The Guardian, which hosted columns by both women, refused to print this submission, provoking Greer into leaving the paper in high dudgeon, though she seems to have recovered her equilibrium; while Moore, she of the offending heels, continued to respect Greer both as a feminist pioneer and a challenging thinker while suggesting politely that it might have been better if she had been criticised for what came out of her mouth rather than what went onto her feet. Greer’s comments circulated amongst the cognoscenti, in any case, ensuring that the reliably thought-provoking Moore is likely to be pursued to her grave by the memory of her ‘fuck-me shoes’. And – sorry, Suzanne – this account probably hasn’t helped.
Catch Me If You Can
‘Catch-me-and-fuck-me’ doesn’t only refer to shoes. It’s been applied to a number of fashion items that either suggest sexual allure or (warning: irony ahead) lack of it. In particular, pieces of equipment issued to American service personnel tend to qualify: catch-me-fuck-me shorts because they’re so damn short, catch-me-fuck-me goggles because they’re so damn ugly. And in Australia, ‘catch me fuck me’ is a national sport, and not in the way you might think: it’s a slang term for the only-men-need-apply game of Rugby League. Gives a whole new meaning to the ‘up and under’ that old Eddie Waring was always talking about, doesn’t it?
Say What?
An Alien’s Guide to Simple British Phrases
AWA’ TAE FUCK: ‘I beg to differ’, but only in Scotland.
FUCKED TO A FARE-THEE-WELL: ‘I seem to be in deep doo-doo.’
FUCK ME AND THE BABY’S YOURS: Guaranteed chat-up line for a one-night stand.
FUCK ME BACKWARDS: ‘I could only be more surprised if you did, in fact, fuck me backwards.’
FUCK ME GENTLY WITH A CHAINSAW: ‘I am having trouble believing what you are telling me.’
FUCK ME HARDER: ‘Why don’t you say something even more annoying?’
FUCK ME RAGGED: ‘I am in a slight state of shock.’
FUCK ME SIDEWAYS: ‘I am coming to realise that my view of the world was slightly naïve.’
FUCK MY DAYS: ‘Gosh, how annoying.’
FUCK MY LUCK: ‘Would you believe it?’
FUCK MY OLD BOOTS: ‘You could have blown me down with a feather.’
FUCK THAT FOR A GAME OF SOLDIERS: Or a top hat, or a game of skittles, or a comic song, or a laugh, or a month in Southend.
FUCK THE BEGRUDGERS: ‘Golly gosh. Did I mention that I’m from Ireland?’
FUCK THE WORLD: ‘I am not a good bet for a stable marriage.’
FUCK YOU, CHARLIE: Or, more softly, Chuck You, Farley.
FUCK YOU JACK: Sequel to the Peter Sellers film I’m All Right, Jack.
FUCK YOU VERY MUCH: ‘Thanks. But no thanks.’
FULL OF FUCK: Beginning to feel slightly randy.
GET THE FUCK OUT: ‘Please leave immediately.’
GET TO FUCK: ‘Are you quite sure about that?’
HE’D FUCK ANYTHING WITH A HOLE IN IT: ‘His eyesight is not what it was.’
INTERNATIONAL FUCK-YOUR-BUDDY WEEK: Time to blame your colleagues for your mistakes.
I WOULDN’T FUCK HER WITH A BORROWED PRICK: ‘I find her company slightly distasteful.’
TAKE A FLYING FUCK AT A RUBBER DUCK: Or a rolling doughnut, as you prefer. In either case, please bugger off.
THROW A FUCK INTO SOMEONE: A poetic way of saying ‘fuck’.
TO BE FUCKED IN THE CAR: To suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, but only in Canada.
TO FUCK THAT INTO A COCKED HAT: Outdo the opposition.
TO GO LIKE THE HAMMERS OF FUCK: To be energetic.
TO GO ON THE FUCK: Become a prostitute.
WHO DO I HAVE TO FUCK TO GET OFF THIS PICTURE?: The casting couch in reverse.
YOU CAN FUCK ME BUT YOU CAN’T MAKE ME LIKE THE BABY: ‘I probably don’t fancy you, but I’ve had so much to drink that I’m prepared to give you bed-room, just this once.’
Excursions
The Famous Austrian Sense of Humour
The British sense of humour is notoriously childish, veering at best to the adolescent. So it is not a surprise that, to our eyes, the funniest place in the whole wide world is the tiny Austrian village of … (wait for it) … Fucking.
Yes, Fucking.
I know. Isn’t that hysterical?
OK, we’ve got that out of our system.
Actually, we haven’t.
Right.
This time I think I can hold it together (just like they do in Fucking) …
Now I’m being serious. Fucking – no, not amusing at all – is on the road from Tarsdorf to Haid, which also passes through the village of Hucking. And it’s near the equally insignificant hamlets of Wupping and Wolfing, which sound rather like another way of saying … no, that’s not funny.
And the name of the road that links Hucking and Fucking is, of course … Fuckinger Strasse. Which, if you ever get bored, means that you go onto Google Maps, put in Fucking, Austria as your target, and you can find about a dozen roads, all marked with the word ‘Fucking’ on them … hang on a minute: they’ve changed it! Now it says ‘Hucking’ all over the map. Curses! Someone must have noticed. That’s not nearly as funny.
Anyway, there are bus stops, apparently, at two places in Fucking: Unterfucking and Oberfucking (Lower Fucking and Upper Fucking to you). And the strange thing is that there is another Unterfucking in Austria, very close to the German border. And, a few feet away, another Oberfucking as well. But there’s no Fucking there, I can promise you.
Back to Fucking, as the actress … no, I must stop that. Nobody in Fucking thinks that the Fucking name is remotely hilarious. In fact, they are heartily sick of anyone who speaks English coming anywhere near them. They are especially tired of journalists from Britain or America phoning them for comments, which is probably why journalists from Britain or America run pretty much exactly the same story about Fucking every three or four years. Each time, there’s a new Fucking mayor to talk to, but the mayor always says the same thing: ‘Leave Fucking alone! We don’t want to talk about Fucking. Fucking is nothing to do with you.’ Or as the police commissioner supposedly told the Daily Telegraph back in 2005 (when it was just as funny as it is now): ‘It may be very amusing for you British, but Fucking is simply Fucking to us. What is this big Fucking joke? It is puerile.’ And I can’t disagree with that. Funny, though, isn’t it?
What problems have been caused by this interest in Fucking? Well, the street signs keep being stolen, even when they’re erected in steel and laid in concrete. And if they haven’t been stolen, then tourists stand in front of them, usually without their clothes, so they can send photos of themselves stark bollock naked in a Fucking street beside the Fucking sign.
And then there are the phone calls, aimed randomly at one of the one hundred or so Fucking inhabitants. This is how it normally goes down:
(ring ring)
‘Ja? Hello?’
‘Hi. I want Fucking.’
‘Ja, you have come to the right place.’
‘You are Fucking?’
‘Ja, this is Fucking!’
Yet despite this, as a Fucking planning official once said, ‘We are proud of our beautiful Fucking.�
� A handful of locals have even been selling commemorative Fucking goods, such as Fucking pencils and Fucking postcards. In 2012, though, there was a Fucking shock, when some of the Fucking people tried to get the name of their town changed to … Fugging.
Sadly for them, but happily for us, there was already another Fugging town a couple of hundred kilometres away, and regional officials didn’t want any confusion between Fucking and Fugging. So the two villages will have to stay exactly as they are, one Fucking and one Fugging. But both adding greatly to the collective joy of the human race – or at least the important part that speaks English.
Welcome to the House of …
It’s a charming slogan, ‘Zum Glück giht’s Fück’, and indeed with good fortune you may find the House of Fuck – or, as the owners would prefer it to be known, Haus Fück. This is not a sex shop, or a house of shame, but a thoroughly respectable establishment which ‘offers over 100 years of typical authentic family hospitality’ (though not all at once).
Yes, the Haus Fück is a hotel in the German town of Leverkusen, the home of the Bayer football team, a phenomenally huge illuminated advertising sign for the chemical company that gave the club its name – and a hotel with, for English-speaking visitors at least, a slightly unfortunate title.
It’s true that the ‘u’ in Fück carries an all-important umlaut above it, which alters its pronunciation in a crucial fashion and also explains the hotel’s rather disappointing website address: www.hotel-fueck.de. But the British have never liked to concern themselves too much with the finer points of foreign languages, so for our purposes the Haus Fück is still the overnight location with the most enticing title the other side of London’s Beaver Hotel. ‘Our guests and friends are travellers from around the world,’ the establishment boasts, and I’d wager that a fair percentage of them are juvenile-minded Brits, Americans, Canadians and Australians (we’ll let the New Zealanders off) anxious to tweet a photo of themselves in front of the hotel sign.
So, while we’re poking fun at perfectly innocent continentals, we should note that the hotel translates its advertising slogan as ‘Luckily there is Fück’, and invites guests to ‘Ask us about specials’, including ‘group rates’ for the friends who want to get much friendlier. But remember, all those of you with very specialised tastes: pets are ‘only allowed after enquiry’, so make sure that your sheep has got its story straight if you’re travelling in mixed company. The Brasserie promises ‘a spectacular end to the day’, while the more modest guests can ‘celebrate undisturbed’ in the Club Room. But watch out for the restaurant, with its ‘moody atmosphere’ – not recommended if your marriage is already on the rocks. And don’t worry if you usually have to reserve a single room: ‘For individual requirements we are at your disposal’. And they don’t offer that at the Beaver Hotel.
Prost!
The vast majority of young Germans now speak our language better than the English do, and can probably swear in several other European tongues as well. So it’s not surprising that businesses in Deutschland have now begun to exploit and celebrate the innocent appearance of the F-word in their own vocabulary, as well as offering the thrill of the forbidden to anyone who shares their mastery of Anglo-American obscenity.
Sadly, none of that was sufficient to save the proprietors of Fucking Good Concerts, a promoter in Stuttgart, from ceasing operations a few years back. But another much larger company has survived and indeed prospered as a distributor of clothing, footwear, soft drinks, and a variety of alcoholic beverages. Now, Germany already had a Bavarian brand of beer invitingly called Hell (which surely begged for the existentialist marketing slogan, ‘Hell is other beers’). But was the nation ready for Fucking Hell beer from the Fucking Hell company of Berlin?
Not quite, it transpired. None of their young customers batted an F-word eyelid, or baulked at putting on a Fucking Hell T-shirt for the morning after the night before. But somebody with a more grown-up view of the world and absolutely no sense of humour succeeded in banning Fucking Hell GmbH from operating under that name any longer.
In the great tradition of liberationists everywhere, the Fucking Hell boys and girls were not going to let lawyers and bureaucrats prevent them from flooding Germany with their joyous English brand name, and so they employed their own experts to fight the prohibition all the way into some very obscure business court operated by vastly overpaid lawyers and bureaucrats at the European Commission.
Their verdict? ‘The examiner rejected the application that the sign used sexuality in order to express contempt and violent anger … the word combination contains no semantic indication that could refer to a certain person or group of persons. Nor does it incite a particular act. It cannot even be understood as an instruction that the reader should go to hell … Nor can it be considered as reprehensible to use existing place names [remember the lovely town of Fucking in Austria] in a targeted manner (as a reference to the place), merely because this may have an ambiguous meaning in other languages.’
In other words, it was fine to call your beer Fucking Hell as long as you were in Germany, you weren’t in a bad mood, you weren’t trying to be sexy or violent, or violently sexy, or sexually violent, and you weren’t trying to be funny. Heaven forbid.
Commercial Break
You know, maybe including the F-word in your business identity isn’t so smart a move after all. Fuckingrats is/was a ‘Creative Web Developers Corporation’ in Argentina, which landed at least one contract in Britain, for the 2009 Festival of the Moving Image at the University of London. A few months later, they were boasting that they had just completed a new Facebook app for a sex shop in Houston, Texas, but since then their web profile has slipped from buzzing to damn near non-existent. But should you find yourself in need of a very low-profile web designer in Rosario, Argentina, at least you now know where to turn.
But there is a real success story to report, at least at the time of writing. The two founders of Good Fucking Design Advice offer a variety of merchandise (wallpaper, coffee mugs, T-shirts, etc.) that displays messages that you might want to convey to the world – or, if you’re a team leader, to the slackers who yawn and scratch themselves in front of you every morning (between fag breaks). Take your pick from ‘Show Some Fucking Passion’, ‘Believe In Your Fucking Self’ and the timeless favourite, ‘Work Fucking Harder’.
Goodfuckingdesignadvice.com should be your first port of call, if you can be arsed.
If You Go Down to the Woods Today …
‘Have Sex, Save the World’ is the kind of slogan that should appeal to everyone – well, everyone who isn’t married to a smelly man who leaves his socks on when he goes to bed. It’s also the ethical basis of a German environmental group whose activities have now spread around the world.
They’re called Fuck For Forest – which, coincidentally, is also the title of the 2013 documentary movie devoted to their cause. The initial Fuck For Forest collective was based in Berlin, where a bunch of young, slim, probably vegetarian women and men, who favour piercings and tattoos more than clothes, and who are determined to prevent the planet from experiencing ecological disaster, came together in more ways than one. Their primary product was what they call ‘Eco-porn’, available only to members who subscribe to their website. ‘Sex is often shown to attract us to buy all kinds of bullshit products and ideas,’ they say, ‘so why not for a good cause?’ Their subscribers can view Fuck For Forest’s home-made erotica, with all proceeds channelled towards environmental projects in the Third World. So perhaps you should consider signing up for Porn Aid – the most useful fun you can have with your clothes off.
Three Days of Peace, Love and …
Holy Fuck, Fuck Buttons, the Fuck Ups, Fuck Dat, the Fuck Off and Dies – sometimes you wonder if these bands might have achieved more if they had put less of their creative energy into raising two fingers to the establishment and more into their music. After their initial teenage thrill of punk-rock self-righteousness, what’s left? No airplay,
no TV exposure, and a somewhat reduced chance of being asked to appear at their local church hall.
So there must have been much rejoicing among the F-word music community when the first Festival of the Fuck Bands was staged in America in 2000. It allowed this tragically persecuted minority to enjoy a rare moment of kindred spirit, and swap war stories about the discrimination and outrage that has been their lot over the previous twelve months. This irregular F-fest reached its inevitable climax in November 2008, when the Festival of the Fuck Bands found its ideal home – in the Austrian village of Fucking.
As 10,000 Marbles, the lead guitarist of the band Fucked Up, explained after the event, the Festival confirmed one basic fact: ‘There is an art form to properly using “fuck” in your band’s name. A lot of kids these days just use “fuck” for shock value. I think it properly represents what it is we do on stage. Seeing [the band’s frontman] Father Damian take off all his clothes and open a wound on his forehead is, in my opinion, pretty fucked up.’ And they say that the golden age of rock’n’roll is dead.
Sadly, since 2008, the Festival of the Fuck Bands seems to have slipped into a coma, perhaps because the participants can’t decide where to hold the next one – the Austrian village of Fuckersberg; the German town of Prichsenstadt, where there’s a pond called Fuckersee; or Laufersweiler, another German location, where a marquee could perhaps be erected in Fuckerter Weg.
Whilst we’re taking childish pleasure in such things, may I draw your attention to the varied delights of such tourist attractions as Dildo in Canada (don’t miss the popular Dildo Trading Post), Muff in Northern Ireland (would you believe that there is a Muff Diving Club?), Wank in Germany (only single rooms available), or one of the enticing options available in France: the villages of Pussy, Anus, and Condom. After which you may be ready for a rest cure in the Massachusetts district of Shagged.
