The Culture Blog For Connoisseurs Of Everything

Congratulations to a brace of slangy Dabbler victors…

Congratulations are in order today – first to our very own Mr Slang, Jonathon Green, whose mighty Green’s Dictionary of Slang – the epic 3-volume culmination of a life’s work – has won the Dartmouth Medal for 2011. This is the prize awarded by the American Library Association for ‘outstanding reference work of the year’ and is widely regarded as the ‘Oscar of the reference world’.

Green’s Dictionary of Slang is the big green one, but the fat red one is only marginally less formidable a tome. So congratulations to quiz supremo Adelephant, who wins a copy of the Chambers Slang Dictionary for her amazing effort in ‘translating’ the slang story the other week.

Here’s the story again, with Brit Snr’s official solution below.

‘In the balloon car of the pothouse’…

A Slang Story by Brit Snr

There I am, in the balloon car of the pothouse, nursing a wallop and eyeing a well-advertised hornbag, when in mopes Willie the Dip, former cutpurse. Before, he was a bomb-head, but now he looks all Sad Sack, snaky- bony and real mangy. Anyway, I get him a tenip and a young and frisky and require of him his doings.

“Well,” says he, “my life been a mommux all right. I set up this three balls biz, but I was a bit of a gagger on the side, you know. Worse luck, one o’ of me punters was a fizgig. Next I knowed, Uncle Nabs ‘as me in a goldfish bowl for a little jaw. Sad to say, the buzzimag is kosher, so I get dropped in the bucket, right? Buzzkill it were, in rumbo. I ‘ad to sport fish roll, an’ I was in with sharks, Jimmy Sangsters, nummers….skrunty types all, most on ‘onch, lots totally abram. They give you the stink-eye and ‘ang a shanty on you for nada. I jus’ stayed shrumpy. Couthed up, I were, an’ took the gaff.

An’ the gooby, Man, it were gross. Gunky red ‘orse, gamy red mike an’ cold thousands. But one little boy blue, this grundiguts walrus, took a schmear OK so I got consumption sticks and some red ‘eart. Comin’ down the ‘ill’ I got a better seg wiv a skinner, ‘e were just a dromedary in for an ‘oliday.

When I got out me biz were gone, so I were a cadaver, Man. No spon for Burton, even. So I been on the charlie. When I get mazoo I fill me tank, crack some suds or fire the bird. I got me an iron gentleman an’ a piece an’ I do a bit o’ drumming with me yaga, but I don’t really trust ‘im. If the busies done us a stingo, he’d come it strong as a horse, surely.

So, you got a ten for a bottle o’ henry berry, China?”

Well, this Willie was always a yarn chopper, but this time I weened him true, totally. I am fully escamado, specially re the gat. I go oopizootics and hand him a pony and my tick-tock. Then I gave it the toes.

He’s pinched that same night, I hear. Totally Brahms and Liszt and waving his roscoe in a creepjoint. Some marra, eh?

Translation:

There I am, in the saloon bar of the pub, holding a beer and eyeing up a provocatively dressed woman, when in mopes Willie the Dip, ex-pickpocket. In the past he was a really happy-go-lucky type, but now he looks depressed, thin and scruffy. Anyway, I get him a pint and a whisky and ask him what he’s been doing.

“Well,” he says, “my life has been a complete mess. I started a pawnbroker’s business, but I was a receiver on the side, you know. Unluckily, one of my customers was a police informer. The next thing I know, the police have me in an interrogation room for a little chat. Sadly, the evidence is clear, so I get sent to prison, right? It was awful in jail. I had to wear prison clothes and I was put in with confidence tricksters, gangsters, thieves…nasty types, all of them, most on heroin and lots of them completely mad. They’d stare at you in a hostile manner and give you a black eye for nothing. I kept quiet. I was well-behaved and I took tolerated the hassle.

And the food, Man, it was disgusting. Sticky corned beef, stinking red salmon and cold beans. But one prison guard, a fat man with a big moustache, took a bribe, so I got cigarettes and some rum. Towards the end of my sentence I had a better cell with a new prisoner, an incompetent thief in for a short sentence.

When I was released, my business was gone, so I was bankrupt, Man. No money for rent, even. So I’ve been living on the street. When I get cash I get drunk, open some cans of beer or drink rum. I’ve got myself a jemmy and a gun and I do a bit of housebreaking with my friend, but I don’t really trust him. If the police arrested us, he’d surely turn Queen’s evidence.

So, have you got ten pounds for a bottle of sherry, Mate?”

Well, Willie was always a story-teller, but this time I really believe him. I am genuinely worried, especially about the pistol. I have a fit of madness and hand him £25 and my watch. Then I get out of there, fast.

I hear he is arrested that same night. Completely drunk, and waving his gun around in a brothel. Some friend, eh?