Sunday, April 21, 2024

THE LOWDOWN: Hal scores while Hoad bombs

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Last week attorney at law Hal Gollop delved into a ticklish area where few have dared to tread and came up with a winner.
Speaking on Brass Tacks, he answered the question which has bedevilled mankind ever since Adam realized Eve wasn’t wearing undies: what to call “it”? I must point out reception was bad and I may have misunderstood him.
The V-word doesn’t cut it, monologues notwithstanding. “Cavity” implies a magnitude not at all flattering to the owner. Other crude terms are unacceptable.
Euphemisms abound. Old Pastor Gamble, who sold religious literature from his donkey cart, often brought his jenny to my Spark Plug for service. “Look at her purse,” he would tell me and I thereby developed considerable expertise in that area from a very young age.
When I mentioned how a pretty Scottish lass crashed her car after a centipede landed in her lap, Branchie the mechanic remarked: “I don’t blame she, skipper. It might’ve bite she ’pon she Margaret.”
With a high-profile case coming up almost entirely centred on the aforementioned area, Ms Myrie and their Lordships would’ve been hard pressed to find an acceptable term. Mr Gollop has come up with the answer: “lacuna” (the plural pronounced “lacoonie”)
“A lacuna,” explained Mr Gollop, “is a gap.”
How wonderfully appropriate! How sweetly it rolls off the tongue! Now a fellow who has been in St Lawrence can tell his wife he was “in the Lacuna”. No doubt she’ll be impressed.
Nor did Mr Gollop neglect the males. (Unfortunately, reception was very poor at this stage. May Allah punish the vandal who broke off my aerial.)
Again there are euphemisms. Old Leitha Wilkinson told my mother once of sitting opposite a Mr Mayers in the bus. He was wearing short pants: “And next thing, mistress, there was his gentleman stretching way out!”
Last Sunday, a church-bound lady with a sweet Jamaican accent hesitated to explain why a male goat is necessary for making mannish water, finally settling on: “It’s ’is business, Mr ’Oad. You need ’is business.”
Bajan women should beware of any Jamaican man who offers to show them his “business”.
And then there was the female member of the police band testifying in an indecent exposure case: “He exposed his . . . .” but she couldn’t go on. “Just say his ‘organ’, madam,” instructed the judge.
But the lady knew her instruments: “Beg pardon, Your Honour. That wasn’t no organ. It was more like a clarinet”.
If I understood Mr Gollop correctly, the male’s part is properly called his “original jurisdiction”.
However, let me return to last week’s column which bit the dust big time. My intention was to point out the difficulties faced by those doing night patrol. And to offer support for a black officer who had to shoot recently in the line of duty, only to find an attorney calling for his suspension and investigation by a foreign entity.
My mistake was to mention the Zimmerman/Martin case. It did not go down well – to put it mildly.
Least of all with Kathyann Brewster: “Mr Hoad, you could be a real ass sometimes. I could see why people don’t like you . . . . You are an ass . . . . Enjoy living in hell . . . . What a disgrace you are to THE NATION and to the country of Barbados.”
And more besides.
Neither did she nor any others fail to mention that I was white.
Since then I’ve been lying low. My wife is wearing my farm clothes while I’m sporting her old maternity dress, my daughter’s red Rihanna wig, a 44 triple D Victoria Secrets bra found in Bizzy’s garbage which I stuffed with handy Peter Simmons’ columns, and G-string undies to match my bikini wax.
Sunday, however, I took a chance and went up Morgan Lewis Hill for coconuts. A car pulled up driven by a stylish woman: “You’re Richard Hoad, aren’t you?”
“Oh God, is dead ah dead!” I wailed. Mine enemies had found me. And the Trini-accent dude with her looked a typical Laventille hit man!
“I am Vivian-Anne Gittens, publisher of THE NATION,” the lady continued, “and this is Mr Somebody Big in journalism from Trinidad.”
I’m too old for this. Time to retire and spend time in the Lacuna.
Oh well, at least one person still loves me – grandson Dominic Benjamin, one year old today.
Maybe that’s because Dom doesn’t read the column.

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