Facebook reminded me of this, for I had forgotten: On May 17th 2016, I wrote a jolly little piece all about the physical effects of ageing upon one’s prized bits. (https://orangehairedalienorabrowning.wordpress.com/2016/05/17/going-south/)
This prompted someone to re-flag one of my all-time-favourite posts: Duck with a Dick!
Now, P.G.Wodehouse often used to make the point I am about to in his Bertie Wooster novels: How much background information should a writer bung in about previous pieces? Should one assume that everyone has read everything and would, therefore, be bored titless by trawling back through the past? Or should one be catering to those to whom one is new and give the basic outline?
So, for those new to my oeuvre: In December 2015, I drove to Clark’s Village, in Street, to finish off my Christmas shopping – and was lured into Menkind almost immediately. There I found a young couple, with their offspring draped over the male of the species’ shoulder, in fits of almost hysterical laughter. Upon investigation – and amused by the bloke’s incoherent gasped utterances – I discovered that they had found the wonderful and infamous bath toy to end all bath toys: The Duck with a Dick!
As soon as I saw this creature, with its humungous appendage, I joined the merry mirth and, within nano-seconds, the three of us were gasping away and making seal noises in unison. Around us, po-faced and disapproving shoppers were giving us the slab-like glare with the Zombie eye, but we ignored them.
So I grabbed a duck and ploughed my way through the crowd to the desk. It was manned – or should that be ‘womaned’? – by two young things of the female persuasion, the shyer of whom asked me (and I bet she’s been regretting this ever since!), ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Well…’ I said, probably in decibels that could be heard in Thornton’s, ‘I’ve got Item A, Exhibit B and a Duck with a Dick! What more could a woman want, eh?’
Through the hissy fits breaking out behind me (I swear I heard the words, ‘How uncouth!’), I discerned a little gurgle, followed by an open flood of hysterical laughter from the ladies at the till. Meanwhile, the wee family, sprog still attached to shoulder, were continuing to give it some serious welly in the barking with mirth department.
Did I keep the aforesaid large-of-todger mallard? No! I was tempted; I won’t lie – but it had been bought for someone else and that person did, indeed, have the vast pleasure, and intemperate hilarity, of unwrapping it on Christmas Day!
You may wonder why I am dredging these two up from the depths now. It is a dark and gloomy day, and the rain is falling down in mini torrents – and I think I am in need of a very important reminder (to self, but also to anyone else feeling a bit down): During the Hell that was 2015 and 2016, I never totally lost my love for the double entendre, the vulgar, the funny; I never, that is to say, completely lost my sense of bawdy humour or stopped laughing altogether, though there were times (I will freely admit) when I thought I would never smile again, let alone indulge in life-giving and raucous spurts of guffawing.
That Duck with a Dick (and my post about things Going South) represents an important symbol, if you like: A symbol of hope, of humour, of sex, of the ability to weather storms with crone-like chortling.
It was, and is, a symbol that my spirit was never completely broken.