The secret language of geezers: decoding pub banter
Written by Old Jeremy, who goes to the pub every day so is qualified to write this articleon Monday 4 December 2023
Tom Hanks to the NGA for letting an old geezer share my experiences. I've been down the battle cruiser for a pig's ear or two in my day. 340 years it's been. I didn't fall off the turnip truck yesterday, I know me onions, I do.
First off is when a geezer says he's "off to see a man about a dog", he ain't actually gonna have a chin-wag with some bloke about a bloody mutt, is he? Nah, it means he's going for a jimmy riddle if you know what I mean. A visit to the porcelain throne, the ol' bog. I remember back in me day when we used to all go for a slash together, crossing streams like a bunch of nutters. Good times, I tell ya. You know what we used to do back in 1720, before that Guinness stuff? We'd get old Mrs. O'Leary to piss in a bucket, and we'd all have a swig. That's how we rolled back then, me old china plates. She knew how to have a right good knees-up, she did. God rest her soul, the old bird. I'm telling ya, them were the days. None of this fancy-schmancy craft beer nonsense. Just a good ol' bucket of Mrs. O'Leary's finest and a laugh with your mates. Course, you'd wake up feeling like you'd been hit by a bleedin' lorry, but that was half the fun, wasn't it?
Back then we'd have said we "had a couple of sherbets", but that's not talking about some poncy sorbet dessert. It's a bevvy, a tipple, a liquid libation of the alcoholic persuasion, ain't it? Cor blimey, that reminds me of the time back in 1805 when me and me mates got absolutely plastered on this homemade hooch we nicked from old man Jenkins' still. We were off our faces, stumbling around the streets of London like a bunch of newborn giraffes. I think I snogged a lamppost at one point, mistaking it for that fit bird from the pub. Bleedin' embarrassing, that was. Anyway, we ended up in this right dodgy pub, where the floor was stickier than a toffee apple and the air smelled like a wet dog's arse. But the booze was cheap, and the landlord turned a blind eye to our shenanigans. His misses had the hots for me back then, I was a right catch back in the day, I tell ya. We got into this barney with a bunch of sailors over a game of darts. I mean, who brings a bleedin' harpoon to a darts match? Bunch of cheating bastards, they were. Long story short, we got kicked out on our arses, but not before I managed to nick a bottle of the landlord's finest rum. We spent the rest of the night drinking in the park, singing bawdy songs, and pissing in the bushes. Blimey, I just remembered old Jeremy shat his pants and had to walk home starkers. Wait a tick... oh, bollocks, that was me, wasn't it.
Alright back to the good stuff. When a geezer tells you to "put a sock in it", he ain't suggesting you stuff a bloody sock in your gob, is he? That reminds me of this one time back in the day when me and me mates were feeling a bit, shall we say, adventurous. We'd been drinking all night and were pretty much up for anything. Well, one thing led to another, and before you know it, we're taking turns shoving socks up each other's arses, just for a laugh. It was all fun and games until me mate Nigel accidentally used a sock that had a big hole in it. Bleedin' thing got stuck up there, didn't it? We tried everything to get it out - tweezers, chopsticks, even a bloody fishing hook. But no luck. Poor Nige had to go to the hospital and explain to the doctor why he had a bloody sock lodged in his back passage. The look on the doc's face was priceless, I tell you. He'd probably never seen anything like it in all his years of medicine. Anyway, they managed to extract the sock, but Nigel was walking funny for weeks afterwards. We never let him live it down, of course. From then on, whenever one of us told Nigel to "put a sock in it," he'd go all pale and start sweating like a pig in a bacon factory. Can't say I blame him, really. That whole experience was enough to put anyone off socks for life.