by Gerald Kersh
For Charles Ponte
GLOSSARY OF COCKNEY RHYMING AND REVERSE SLANG, AND SOME COLLOQUIALISMS
Arf a tick: Wait a bit
Auntie Nelly: Belly (Cockney rhyming slang) Bags of: Plenty of; lots of Ball-of-Chalk: Walk (Cockney rhyming slang) On the bash: Dissolute life; primrose path; street-walking, etc.
Bees-and-Honey: Money (Cockney rhyming slang)
Berk, or Berkeley Hunt: Sucker; fool (Cockney rhyming slang)
Billingsgate: Gigantic wholesale fish market, traditional for violent invective
Bob: Shilling—silver coin worth about $.14 currently, $.25 in the 1930s
Bobby: Uniformed policeman; see “Bogies”
Bog: Lavatory
Bogies: Uniformed policemen; “bobbies”
Bolo: Off-angle; untidy
Brassy: Impudent; “fresh”
Bread-and-Lard: Hard (Cockney rhyming slang)
Bucket-and-Pail: Jail (Cockney rhyming slang)
Bugger off: Go away; scram
Bullocked, or Bullock’s Horned: Pawned (Cockney rhyming slang)
Bunce: Perquisites; “gravy” or “schmalz”
Busies: Plainclothes policemen; detectives
Cadge: Borrow; promote; bum
Carsey: Lavatory
Chancer: One who “chances his arm”—i.e., a vain taker of impudent risks
Charing Cross: Horse (Cockney rhyming slang)
China plate: Mate (Cockney rhyming slang)
Chit: Bill; accounting; I.O.U.
Chivvy, or Chevy Chase: Face (Cockney rhyming slang)
Cinema: Moving-picture theater
Cocko: Buddy; male term of address
Come the old soldier: Be a chancer and malingerer at the same time; lie and shirk; “gold brick”
Cop: Grab; snatch; pilfer
Cosh: Blackjack
Cruncheon: See “Truncheon”
Cuif: Hair curl on or over a man’s forehead
Cuppa: Cup of tea
Daisies, or Daisy Roots: Boots; shoes (Cockney rhyming slang)
Damager: Manager (Cockney reverse slang)
Dekko: Look; glance
Ding-dong: Song (Cockney rhyming slang)
Doolally. Balmy; crazy
Do a flit: Skip without paying room rent
To do: Flim-flam; con; cheat; frame; fight
Drop o’ short: A short measure of spirits (Cockney slang)
Duke-of-York: Fork; hand (Cockney rhyming slang)
Faggot: Working mans rissole of chopped odds and ends
Farthing: Copper coin equal to 1/4 British penny, currently worth $.14, $.25 in 1930s
Fascia: Signboard above shop front
Five-to-two: Jew (Cockney rhyming slang)
Flex: Telephone cord
A float: Small change to transact day’s business
Flob your gob: Vomit
Flog: Peddle; pawn; sell
To fluff: Catch on; get the idea
F.L., or French letter: Latex contraceptive
Gaff: Show; theater
Gee up: Encourage; egg on
Get a wire on: Receive an anonymous tip
Graft: Honest toil; i.e., a hard day’s graft is a hard day’s work
Guinea: Coin now out of circulation but still quoted in prices; equal to one pound, one shilling, or 21 shillings; worth $2.94 currently; $5.25 in 1930s
Half crown: Silver coin equal to two shillings, sixpence; worth $.33 currently; $.63 in 1930s
Half-inch: Pinch (Cockney rhyming slang)—i.e., filch; steal
Hearts-of-oak: Broke (Cockney rhyming slang)
Heavens above: Love (Cockney rhyming slang)
Irish Rose: Nose (Cockney rhyming slang)
Jordan: Chamberpot
Johnny Horner: Corner (Cockney rhyming slang)
Johnny Rann: Scran (Cockney rhyming slang)—i.e.,
food
Joss paper: Incense
Jumper: Sweater
Keyster: Suitcase; traveling bag
Kip: Bed; sleep—i.e., “cop a nip” is grab a nap
Lark: High jinks; frolic
A lay: Scheme; trick; plot
Layabout: Good-for-nothing; lazy bum
Little Bo-Peep: Sleep (Cockney rhyming slang)
Loaf-of-Bread: Head (Cockney rhyming slang)
Lord-of-the-Manor: Tanner (Cockney rhyming slang)—i.e., sixpence
Love-in-a-Punt: Beer (Cockney rhyming slang)
To madam: Hand out nonsense—i.e., “don’t madam me” is “don’t give me any stuff”
Martin’s-le-Grand: Hand (Cockney rhyming slang)
Mickey: Spirit—i.e., “take the mickey out” is “cut down a peg”; “take the starch out”
Milkman’s horse: Cross (Cockney rhyming slang)
Mince pies: Eyes (Cockney rhyming slang)
Mincing machine: Food chopper
Mob-handed: Rabble; in a mob
Monkey-nuts: Peanuts
Multiple shops: Chain stores—i.e., “Multiple chemists” is chain drugstores
Nark: Informer; stool pigeon
Never-never: Installment plan purchasing—i.e., “Never-never”, can you finish paying
Nicker: Pounds sterling—see “Quid” and “Sovereign”
Niff: Odor
Nipper: Child
Nip out: Rush
North-and-South: Mouth (Cockney rhyming slang)
Oliver Twist: Fist (Cockney rhyming slang)
Paisley Disaster: Historic holocaust in movie theater where many children perished
Take a pen’orth, or take a pennyworth: Take a ride— i.e., go away; scram
Pig’s ear: Beer (Cockney rhyming slang)
Pong: Unpleasant physical odor; “B.O”
Put a sock in: Stop; lay off; quit
Pinch: Pilfer; steal
Plates-of-meat: Feet (Cockney rhyming slang)
Plong: Sell stolen stuff; push “hot” goods
Pope-of-Rome: Home (Cockney rhyming slang)
Poste Restante: P.O. box
Pot-and-Pan: Man (Cockney rhyming slang)
Potato crisps: Potato chips
Quid: Pounds sterling—a pound being worth about $2.80 currently; $5 in the 1930s; also see “Nicker” and “Sovereign”
Randy: Round
Raspberry tart: Heart (Cockney rhyming slang)
Rissole: Rice-filled hamburger
Rolling billows: Pillows (Cockney rhyming slang)
Rorty: Quarrelsome; ferocious
Rosie Lee: Cup of tea (Cockney rhyming slang)
Roundabouts: Carousel; merry-go-round
Scrounge: Promote; borrow
Shoot the Moon: Skip without paying room rent
Skilly: Oatmeal and water; weak gruel
Skiver: Someone who avoids duty
Skivvy: Contemptuous term for domestic servant
Skyrocket: Pocket (Cockney rhyming slang)
Smashing: Wonderful; marvelous
Snob: Shoe mender; cobbler
Sod: Term of abuse
Sovereign: Gold coin withdrawn from circulation and worth a pound; see “Quid” and “Nicker”
Smithfield: Gigantic wholesale meat market and traditional source for reverse slang
Spit-and-polish: Immaculate dress (from military)
Up the spout: Up the flue; bankrupt
Strike-me-dead: Bread (Cockney rhyming slang)
Stone: Measure of weight, equals 14 lbs.
Tanner: Silver coin equal to 1/2 shilling; worth $.07 currently; $.125 in 1930s
Tea-leaf: Thief (Cockney rhyming slang)
Ting-a-ling: Money; change
Titfer, or Tit-for-Tat: Hat (Cockney rhyming slang)
Tosheroon: Half-crown
Tosser: Any small coin
Tram; tramcar: Trolley
Tramline: Trolley tracks
Try it on: To con; gyp
Turn: Vaudeville act; vaudeville actors
Twicer: Double-crosser
Twot: Term of abuse for the female
Truncheon: Nightstick of British cop
Uncle Ned: Bed (Cockney rhyming slang)
Upsy-down: Upside down
Variety: Vaudeville
Wallop: Beer
To wallop: Sell under the counter; shove stolen stuff
Weskit: Waistcoat
Wide: Slick; smart; clever in illicit deals; derived from “wide awake”
Wilkie Bard: Card (Cockney rhyming slang)
Woodbines: Brand of cigarettes sold in packets of five
Yet-to-be: Free (Cockney rhyming slang)
Yobs; Yobbos: Boys (Cockney reverse slang)
END
1
SNORING FOR air while he sipped and gulped at himself, talking between hastily swallowed mouthfuls of himself, fidgeting with a little blue bottle and a red rubber nose-dropper, Mr. Yudenow said to me, “Who you are, what you are, I duddo. But I like your style, what I bead to say— the way you wet about applying for this ‘ere job. Dishertive, dishertive—if you get what I bead—dish-ertive is what we wat id show biz. Arf a tick, please—I got to take by drops.”
He filled the dropper with some pale oily fluid, threw back his head and sniffed; became mauve in the face, gagged, choked; blew into a big silk handkerchief, and then continued, sighing with relief, “Wonderful stuff. It’s deadly poison. But it loosens the head.” He showed me the contents of his handkerchief, which might have been brains. “Confidentially, catarrh. Yes. I like the way you went about applying for this ‘ere job. Milhons of people would give their right ‘and to manage one of Sam Yudenow’s shows— the cream of the biz, the top of the milk! So?”
“Well,” I said, “I saw your ad—”
“That’s right, ad. Not advertisement. Ad. Like Biz, like Pix, like Lites. Good.”
“I saw your ad, and it said at the end, ‘Apply Sam Yudenow the Pantheon Fowlers End.’ I thought to myself, there can’t be many Sam Yudenows in the phone book, so I rang you at your private address.”
“You said Joe told you to ring. What Joe? Big Joe or Little Joe?”
“Any Joe you like,” I said. “Everybody’s got some friend called Joe.
“I like imagination,” said Sam Yudenow. “In show biz it’s am-perative. How much d’you weigh?”
“About fourteen stone seven, stripped.”
“That’s all right. You won’t have time to strip. It’s just about the right weight for a manager of the Pantheon. How d’you like the name Pantheon? I made it up.”
“Greek?” I suggested.
“It’s Greek for kinema. You can read an’ write okay?”
“I think so.”
“You need edyacation in show biz. You’d be surprised the idears you pick up reading. Only don’t put on no airs. You’d be surprised what they’d do to you rahnd Fowlers End if you put on airs. When I first went into show biz I used to say ‘please’ ‘ere and ‘thank you’ there—they soon knocked that out o’ me. You got to adopt yourself, like me. Fowlers End ain’t Park Lane—not quite. Me, when I’m in Buckingham Palace I talk like Bucking ham Palace. But rahnd Fowlers End you got to talk like one o’ the right yobbos.... Can you use your ‘ands?”
“Box a little,” I said.
“You won’t need to—don’t worry about that. They don’t understand that stuff rahnd Fowlers End. If somebody gets rorty and buggers up the show, so come up be’ind ‘im like a gentleman; put a stranglehold on ‘is thvoat miv the left arm, pick ‘im up by the arse from ‘is trousers miv the right ‘and, and chunk ‘im into the Alley—one, two, threel— in peace and quiet. My last manager but two got punchdrunk, kind o’thing, and lost ‘is nerve—tried to clean up the Fowlers End Health and Superman League miv a fire bucket, and I was the sufferer. Keep order, yes, but leave no marks. I want my managers should be diplomats. Look at Goldwyn, look at Katz. Odeons they started miv nickels, not knuckles, and you should live to see your children in such a nice position like they got. Remember, the Pantheon don’t cater for royalty, and Fowlers End ain’t Bond Street— not just yet it ain’t.
“In the first place, everybody’s unemployed—which is the opium of the people rahnd here. The rest, so they work in factories—which is the scum. Rahnd the corner is the Fowlers End Pipe Factory. They make gas pipes, water pipes—d’you foller? Well, all these loafers do, instead of making pipes, they make coshes: so they’ll get a foot of gas pipe and fill it up with lead. One of them threatens you, don’t call the police to give the show a bad name. This is a family theater. Warn him. If he ‘its you to leave a mark, then the law’s on your side. Put the left ‘and rahnd his thvoat, the right ‘and in the arse of his trousers, and chunk ‘im out. And don’t give ‘im his money back. That is the opium of the working classes. Stand no nonsense if you want to be a showman.... Whereas, there’s a mob kids from school, so there’s a new idear they got. So they get a great big potato and stick it all over miv old razor blades; a bit of string they tie it onto, and right in the face they let you ‘ave it. Discourage ‘em. Threaten to tell their teacher. Lay one finger on ‘em and the N.S.P.C.C. is after us for cruelty to children—and I’m the sufferer.... It’s nothing; like a lion-tamer, just be cool and nobody’ll ‘urt you. Remember, this ain’t the New Gallery in Regent Street, not already, almost.... You got a watch?”
“It’s being mended,” I said, having pawned it to get my last respectable suit from the cleaners. With the change I had bought two tenpenny cigars with gold labels, one of which I now offered to Mr. Yudenow, who, rolling it between his fingers and listening to it, said, “It creckles. That’s the sign of a good cigar. That’s another thing you should learn—you don’t taste a good cigar; you hear it.... Zize saying—d’you toiler me?—don’t carry a good watch. Get two or three in Cherring Cross Road for a couple bob apiece—not to tell the time miv, but to give the babies to listen to when they start crying and buggering up the show. On a chain, better—I got sued once when some kid swallered one of my managers’ watch. Miv celluloid, not glass—the little bastards bite—they cut their mouf, and I’m the sufferer.... You got diamond rings? Diamond rings you got?” “Not many, I’m afraid.”
“Take my advice, don’t wear ‘em. You cut somebody’s face making peace and quiet, and I’m the sufferer. Anyway, it’s a temptation. This ain’t the Opera House, I think you ought to know. One of my managers flashed a ring once, and the yobbos from the pipe factory nearly took it off him. Would have done too, only his finger was too fat. They was ‘alfway through the finger miv a ‘acksaw blade when ‘is screams roused the neighborhood ... and I don’t mind telling you it takes some screaming to rouse this ‘ere neighborhood. Why, rahnd in Godbolt Alley—read about it in the papers?—they put up a new block of working men’s flats miv barf rooms. A Greek barber called Pappas cut up his girl friend in the barf, and put the pieces in a crate. Didn’t have the common savvy to gag her first. Nobody paid any attention. Little tiff, they thought. ‘Come Up and Saw Me Sometime’they called ‘im later. That’s the class of people they are, rahnd Fowlers End. Give ‘em a barf and that’s all they know to do miv it. I don’t mind warning you that, of all the people, these are the out-and-out opium.
“Thieves and drunkards. They’d steal the rings from under their mothers’ eyes. The milk out of your tea they’d pinch. Last time I had the painters in, my worst enemies shouldn’t go through what I went through with these stinkpots. Day and night I watched this ‘ere show, and even so the lousebound lowlifes knocked off a five-gallon drum walnut varnish stain. Drunk it up, the swine. One old woman died from it. It only goes to show you what they are—a lot of rotters. The salt of the earth, mind you, only bad to the backbone. Turn your back five minutes and they strip the place to the bone. You got to keep on the toes of your feet. Only last week there was trouble in the laventry. A woman stands up
on the wet seat to pinch the electric light bulb and electrocutes herself. That’s show biz for you. You got to keep your eye out for things like that. It’s not their fault. It’s the capitalistic system—too soft with the bastards. Unions! The velvet ‘and in the iron glove I’d give ‘em, miv knobs on. So the way it is nowadays a carpenter won’t pick up a paintbrush, an electrician won’t pick up a gas pipe, a plasterer won’t pick up a ‘ammer.... And there’s something else. Authority! Stand no nonsense from workmen. Give an order and it should be obeyed—one, two, three! If not, the left arm in the thvoat, the right ‘and in the arse of the trousers, and ‘Good day to you!’You’ll get experience ‘ere, I can tell you that. Believe me, I been in show biz twenty-five years, and you’d be surprised what a good showman can do miv a screwdriver and a bit of elbow grease in a place like this. ‘Do It Yourself is the motto by me. It comes natural after a bit. And always remember this: your audience is like yourself. Who’s your best friend? Yourself. Who’s your worst enemy? Yourself. Who’ve you got to blame always? Yourself. Treat them as such. What are they, after all? The salt of the earth, the toe-rags!
“I found this place a dump, and I turned it into a little paradise,” said Sam Yudenow, with emotion. “The first pitcher I showed ‘ere was called The Covered Wagon. Ever see it? I’d revive it if I could get a copy that wasn’t all scratched up to bloody buggery—make a few streamers like latest!!!, thrilling!!!!—and show it again. Remember? It’s about the Pilgrim fathers, so they emigrate to America in a covered wagon. What do they see? A crap heap full o’cowboys and Indians. But are they downhearted? No! Miv a packet seeds and a shovel, up comes a gold mine in California. A proud heritage. That’s how I felt when I opened the Pantheon. I cried miv joy. That’s how I want you should feel—like a covered wagon Friday and Saturday night miv the wild Indians. Peace and quiet in the wilds; the takings put away, all Sunday to yourself. The County Council, the bastards, they won’t allow Sunday opening— Yes, everyone in the biz knows Sam Yudenow, and there’s men fifty years’ experience in the trade would pay me to work for me. Only one thing I ask: if you got the idear in your ‘ead that Fowlers End is Mayfair, get it out again. Because, confidentially between us, it’s nothing of the kind. “But come and look at the ‘all.”
There is a psychologists’ variation of the game of hide-and-seek: someone conceals a small object in a large room, and you have to find it. You do this by linking arms with the other man and walking as it were casually round and round with him. As you get closer and closer to the concealed object the man who has hidden it, by subconscious muscular contraction, will tend to pull you away. You concentrate your search, therefore, where the pull-away is strongest. In a manner of speaking, this is how you find Fowlers End—by going northward, step by step, into the neighborhoods that most strongly repel you. The compass of your revulsion may flicker for a moment at the end of the Tottenham Court Road, especially on a rainy March morning. You know that to your right the Euston Road rolls away, filthy and desolate, blasted by the sulphurous grit that falls forever in a poisonous shower from the stations of Euston and St. Paneras. Take this road, and you find yourself in a hell of flop-houses, mephitic furnished apartments, French-letter shops, hopeless pubs, and sticky coffee shops. Here, turn where you like, there is an odor of desolation, of coming and going by night. On the left-hand side of this heartbreaking thoroughfare, the foxholes, rat traps, and labyrinthine ways of Somers Town beyond which the streets run like worm holes in a great chase northward again to Camden Town. But you know that if you cross the street you will wander forever in the no man’s land that he’s between here and the God-forgotten purlieus of Regent Square and the Gray’s Inn Road.
