I blame Lenin. Or maybe it was The Specials. It might have been The Catcher in the Rye, or even Marc Bolan’s ringlets and feather boa. It was definitely witnessing a queue of punks waiting to get into a gig at The Nashville in London in 1978. That alone was life changing. There was also David
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Category Archives: What’s the Word
Ecoutez, mes enfants. In other words, listen up kids. Cos here’s something a wee bit different from the Word Up blog HQ for the New Year. It’s not a blog as you know it, it’s a phog. Yep, a phog. See, I’ve been torn between writing up a storm about the merits of being a
A seasonal ditty to be sung to the tune of John Lennon’s Christmas classic “Happy Christmas (War is Over)”. Altogether now… So this is business And I’m about done Another year over Tax return still not begun And so this is business Not always much fun But my very own dear one Sometimes tricky to
There’s something to be said for the heavy artillery of a weather bomb. The explosive effects of this week’s hoolies and skin scouring hail showers certainly blasted this wee wordsmith into a wide-awake state. Maybe the air’s full of positive ions or sumfink, but I for one was well and truly invigorated by Mother Nature’s
I believe the children are the future. Or so warbled smooth soulster George Benson. Personally, I was always more of a Teenage Kicks kinda gal, but whichever way your musical leanings lie, let’s hear it for the youth of today. They’re the future, innit. I’ve always been a fan of the yoof – adolescent angst, attitude
I love a good swear word, so I do, ya ***t. Yup, I’m a big fan of the Glesga vernacular, splattered as it so often is with spectacular swearies. Okay, sometimes the sheer scale of the effing and blinding is right over the top – 19 mentions of the “c” word in one short paragraph
Flat on my face. That’s where I’m going to end up if I don’t regain some perspective, pronto. Pride usually comes before a fall, after all. For a couple of weeks now, I have been well and truly failing to practice what I preach. Oh aye, I can pontificate from a lofty pedestal with the
I am a leader. Apparently. I am a leader amongst women. Yup. Hey! Don’t knock it. This leadership stuff is rather intoxicating, I’m beginning to see the appeal of rampant megalomania. And anyway, I s’pose as a captain of industry (ahem), I am a leader of sorts. But as a sole trader “take me to
Clap me in irons Sheriff, I’ve gone and broken the law. Nothing heinous, you understand – there’s no GBH or breaking and entering going on in the Word Up world. Not this week, anyway. But it turns out that I might be guilty of illegal business behaviour. Imagine the frisson of excitement I felt when
I’ve got the blues. The bad language blues. Not the effing and blinding variety, feck no. That would be hypocrisy of the highest order from one who indulges in foul-mouthed badinage on a woefully regular basis. Nope, the bad language getting my goat is jargon. I’m talking about the strands of language used in niche
