SLANG AND THE STOMACH

Timaru Herald, Volume CLVI, Issue 23083, 23 December 1944, Page 2

SLANG AND THE STOMACH

Food For Thought In Speech Mr Eatwell Jones set out for his tram with a definite air of gaiety after his Monday morning breakfast. This was not usually the case, but it was an unusual morning His wife had managed to procure his favourite cut of steak, and. to cap it off, tnere was a real egg to go with it. Mr Jones felt that this food rationing was not nearly as bad as most people imagineu.

His tram companion. Simson, bad not made such an excellent start for the week. Brains on toast, indeed! Invalid's food, he had snorted when Mrs Simson had placed it before him. Consequently, when he received Jones s hearty greeting at the tram stop his face suggested that he had lost his ration book and found an income tax assessment. "Not much ginger In your step this morning, Simmy, old man,” said Jones cheerily. "What do you expect with this food rationing business? I can’t get a decent breakfast. I feel flat as a pancake this morning.” “Bad management, Simson! Monday morning, particularly! You should arrange for a super breakfast on Monday. I had steak and egg this morning. Steak and egg, mind you! I feel right as pie.” “Yes. I’ll have to speak to the wife about it. If I don't hop in for my chop I’ll be landing in the soup.” “Did His Sugar” Their tram slowed down as it approached the safety zone. "Stand back there,” called the driver sharply. "Some of you men will get the stuffing knocked out of you one of these days.” “A trifle peppery this morning, isn’t he,” ventured Mr Jones. Probably didn’t breakfast too well either. If a man knows his onions he will eat well these days, or he won’t be worth ills salt.” "That’s all very well,” replied his friend, “but it all boils down to a question of housekeeping. It’s no use mincing matters, Jonesy, but mV wife is always in a jam over the food problem ” “Fares, please,” interrupted the redhaired conductress. And two hands dived into pockets. "I’ll have little enough pocket money this week,” remarked Simson, surveying his change. “I did my sugar at the races on Saturday, and came home without a bean.” “You always were a mutton-head when it came to backing horses,” replied Jones. “Well, if that's not the pot calling the kettle black.” protested his companion indignantly. “How often have I given you the good oil, but you just loaf about the stand instead of fucking down to back a sure thing. Next Saturday I'll let you stew in your own juice.” “A man ohght to be boiled in oil for spending money on races.” said Jones. “As far as entertainment goes, boxing is far ahead. You’ll get your money's worth there, sure as eggs.” “Not for me,” objected Simson. "Seeing cauliflower ears belted about by leg-of-mutton fists might be all right for some hard-boiled citizens, but not for me. “Nonsense, nonsense!” Jones exclaimed. “You exaggerate enormously. The boys in the ring dish out some real glove work these days. There may be one or two of the spectators a trifle pickled, but wherever you go you’ll always find some one take the biscuit. Admittedly it’s no place for a cowardly custard, and you wouldn’t expect a young fellow to take his sweetie there to spoon, but if you want an evening's manly sport, go to the boxing, and you’ll be set like a jelly.” “Lovely head of hair the conductress has,” said Simson, changing the subject as the lady in question approached. “A real tomato blonde, isn’t she?” "I wonder if many people call her Carrots,' ” muttered Jones innocently. “About half the saucy people that get on this tram,” said the* conductress, whose hearing was evidently as keen as mustard. “Talking Tripe” Jones turned the colour of beetroot, and he stammered an apology. “That’s quite all right,” she said, as cool as a cucumber. ‘T’m used to such remarks. From the women, of course, it’s usually a case of sour grapes.” “Your stage whisper put your pot away then, Jones. You might as well beef it out at the top of your voice.” “Don’t talk tripe,” retorted Jones. "She is a peach, though, isn’t she? Guess the lads go nuts over her. They’d reckon she was a honey.” “Yet if they popped the question the answer would probably be a lemon,” said Simson. “Or a raspberry,” Jones suggested. "I guess she's got a heart like a cabbage—a leaf for everyone.” "Steady now. Jonesy. She might hear you again; then you’d be out of the frying-pan into the fire.” “Well, here’s our stop. Simmy old bean, so we can’t stay and play gooseberry. And remember to arrange for a better breakfast in future, otherwise youll get a gruelling from your boss, and your goose will be well and truly cooked.” "My cake is dough, anyway,” Simson replied, as, with appetites already unconsciously sharpened for morning tea, the two set out for their respective work benches. (And now count the references to food!)