Looking back down the dry and dusty path of my life I am forced, wincingly, to acknowledge the exceptional number of embarrassments I have experienced. The worst are those where I did not appreciate at the time that anything embarrassing was happening. It is into that barrel of pickled limbs I delve tonight.
It is 1971 and we have gathered at my Nan’s house for a Sunday dinner. Once we have eaten the adults move into the kitchen to clean up and chat and my sister and I are deposited onto the big sheepskin rug in front of my grandparent’s television which buzzes and hums with electricty.
We have been buffed and polished to perfection, our hair combed until it has lost all strength and falls limply over our foreheads. Our cheeks are red from being rubbed at desperately with a hankie onto which my mother has very kindly spat. We have each demonstrated our unfailing good manners and discussed our school work in clear voices and with feigned enthusiasm. We have even choked down the vegetables that my grandmother has reduced to watery pellets of pale goo with her new “pressure cooker”. Our parents are thus reassured that we have met the demanding standards that my grandparent have set and my mother is toasting happily in the glow of the approval of her parents-in-law.
The film my sister and I are watching is a colouful fantasy called “Jack the Giant Killer”. In a scene which grabbed at my young imagination, the beautiful and virtuous princess is imprisoned by an evil wizard named, presciently, Thatcher. Whilst the princess struggles, her arms fastened by shackles above her head (the better to accentuate her chaste bosom), Thatcher approaches her holding a large Swarowski paper weight from which hypnotic lights emanate. The lights bring about a transformation. Her clothes loosen, her hair becomes disarranged, her fingernails grow and her new leer suggests (correctly) that she has become very very wicked. Without quite understanding why, this scene spoke to me. It induced a whole new set of sensations that utterly bemused me.
I trotted off to the kitchen to find my parents. As I reached the doorway, my Nan beamed at me and asked solicitously “What is it little Moobs?”
“I have a question Nanna”
“Do you indeed?” My ancestors exchanged smiles and made little nods to each other. My hair was ruffled affectionately.
“What is your question little man?”
“Why has my willy gone all stiff?”
There was a silence so profound it seemed to suck the light from the room, broken only by the sound of my mother dropping a teacup into the sink.
Ooooh my.
Aside from the “willy”…you brought forth all my memories of musty front parlors and me sitting quietly and slighty nauseous from all that lilly of the valley and moth ball smell that they all had.
Like preservatives had been poured on all the wrinkled and ancient beings.
We stayed with this old lady friend of my moms for a while and her fave thing was to put on nature shows on tv when her sister was visiting….the more humping animals the better.
And that brings you to the 90’s where the film FREE WILLY has no doubt been a favourite in your home….
CC – I know exactly what you mean I associate lily of the valley with impending death.
Pend – that title certainly raised an eyebrow or two in the UK.
Top form!
Oh Moobsie. My brother once announced, during a lull in the Sunday lunch conversation, that sometimes his willy was like a piece of plastercine, and sometimes it was like a piece of wood.
He, however, was content to let this lie forever in family lore. You have broadcast on the internet, and for that we salute you.
Mr H is on holiday today and having a lie-in. I laughed so much at this that i woke him up and the couldn’t explain why I was laughing so much because I was incapable of speaking. It’s excellent.
6-year-old son of a friend confided in her that he was the only boy he knew whose willy had a bone in it.
glad to hear you were such a red-blooded mooblet. if you’d been my little boy, i’d have been very proud of you.
(never mind banning smacking, i think cleaning a child’s face with spit is a violation of their human rights and should be subject to on-the-spot fines. i’d rather my two went dirty than do that to them.)
Hee hee.
I agree with mad muthas about the spit thing – I still have a phobia of dirty hankies to this day.
There was a boy in my primary 2 class who would turn his willy inside out if you asked him nicely.
Oh my gosh. I’ve just read Norah’s blog and then moved straight on to yours. I think I’ve just bust something from laughing too much…
Brilliant. BRILLIANT. I had to leave my desk to laugh in the stairwell.
Gamba: inside out? Eh? And ow!
Surely the cleaning of faces with spit is the cornerstone to any good upbringing.
aaaaaaaaahahahahaha OMG too funny!
lmao! you evil, evil child you! :p and did your grand mamma really call you little moobs??? lol just picturing it. lol
Cool story! Did anyone ever give you an answer…or are you still waiting on that?
Cool blog! Will be back to read more!
An invoice is on its way for a new keyboard. Mine has tea all over it now, and it’s all your fault. Brilliant.
Another brilliant yet disturbing look into young Moob’s childhood. Fascinating….
I made my husband come in and read this!
Also, my Dad bought the DVD of Jack the Giant Killer for my kids. I saw some of it and about died. It’s creeeeepy!
Ah yes, you had a far more repressed childhood than mine. Still, at least they answered you with a silence and not with anger. My mum told me that I came home from preschool when I was three, and told her there was a boy at school that could do a fantastic trick with his willy, rubbing it to stand up like a mushroom, he did it all the time (at three! wow! he is probably in porn now). My mum just laughed apparently, and said that sounded quite amusing.
UGH! Poor Moobs. I delight in your brilliant honesty and trust. I imagine the retelling of this story is embarassing. But the story itself is really quite sweet.
Hey moobs…I’ve got a question… 😉
Steve~
Em – as I was literally beaten with a stick at age 13 for having a page 3 picture secreted in my wardrobe I think you may be right about the different levels of repression.
OGC – Actually, I discover that my embarrassment must have been a fear that somehow people would find out about my dorkiness. BUt volunteering what a dork I am somehow takes away the pain.
Steve – No I won’t. Use the gloves and tongs I got you.
AWESOME story! I love it … the innocence that prompted you to ask so unabashedly is diametrically opposed to the loss of innocence that you cartoon-inspired erection demonstrated. Your poor mom … almost out of the woods (pardon the pun), when you unraveled her perfect evening in a moment! Classic.
Wonderful!! As I don’t have a willy of my own, I remain fascinated by their adventures. If you’ve got your own, I imagine the novelty wears off…..
Hang on, maybe not…..
Also, I remember those vegetables too! I used to get them at my grandparents’ house. It didn’t matter what they were, they all looked the same on the plate. I think my nan had heard that vitamins were poisonous so she boiled the veg to extract all the bad stuff…..
“What is it little Moobs”
This was a brilliant, hilarious post. Made my night.
I used spit to clean my sons face just the other day. Since I’m not the hanky carrying type, I resorted to licking my thumb and using it to wipe some dry crusty stuff of his face. The worst part is that I did it right in front of school. The funny thing is that I didn’t think about it until I was mid wipe. My poor child. It’s a mom thing. Must. Clean. Face.
Aww Moobsy you’re funny. The purely innocent ramblings of a young boy.
..reminds me of the time I asked my mum for penis butter and vaginamite sandwiches for lunch..
‘Spect, dude. Excellently funny.
….
I think I used exactly the same words as a chat-up line, once.
Hm.
Oh bugger, hold on……damn Firefox and its settings-remembery thingies.
I’m *not* the Resistance any more. That was another post.
Dang & arse.
A uni friend who went on to teacher training told me a tale of her teaching practice at a junior school (kids around 7 or 8, I think). There was an assessor in the classroom at the time.
Small blonde girl: “Miss! Miss! Jimmy’s playing with his toy car under the desk.”
Miss: “Now, now, SBG, sneacking isn’t nice. Jimmy – put your car away, please.”
SBG: “But MISS!! He’s running it up and down his WILLY!”
Miss: ” …”
Damn. ‘sneaking’! I know how to spell it. Yes I do.
Great story, greatly told.
I wish my parents had been more repressive. Their progressive ideas of upbringing meant that this was my experience of primary school sex education:
Teacher: “So why do a man and a woman have sex then?”
Unanimous “TO MAKE A BABY!!”
Me, joyous at my superior knowledge: “And sometimes they do it just for fun!”
Class: “EEEuuurrrggghhhh! Shame!”
Welcome to the dork club…. Wanna beer?
Love it.
It was the paper weight, wasn’t it?
Great story and well told. I am now searching my repressed childhood memories for similar inspirational gems.
lol, reminds me of when I was 16 and I took my baby brother who was about 3 years old to the toilet and he said “look Lee, it’s growing…” and I rushed out to the verandah blushing and mortified to ask my mother if this was normal for three year olds.
Apparently it is!
Just got broadband back after another 3 week hiatus – and have to tell you that Burnham Market – Norfolk is almost Chelsea-on-Sea it’s so posh. I was surprised.
Happy Christmas to you and yours Moobs….
Happy Holidays Moobs, and don’t make yourself sick eating too much Quality Street and Christmas pudding.
Last Christmas, one of my adorables announced loudly and publicly (so that Granny could hear) that “Ghosts don’t need legs, because they scoot around on their vaginas.”
More than dishes dropped that funny afternoon.
That story is HELARIOUS! I see now what I have to look forward to with my son. As of now, I have only caught him giggling in the bathtub as he placed “himself” in and out of the stream of running water! Thanks for sharing!
and I can still hear that teacup…