I cannot begin to do justice to yesterday’s rich experience at Genting, from which we are recovering today by refusing to go out anywhere, but I’ll try to encapsulate the day through a vignette of sorts, from late in the afternoon, when the temperatures were beginning to imitate those of a November afternoon in England (the mist had descended on the mountaintop on which the amusement park, hotels, casino, and other bits and pieces that go under the name ‘Genting’ are perched) and I was seeking some respite from the chilly breezes and an aching left leg by leaning on a wall observing our team, or most of the older members thereof, queuing for a ride entitled with imaginative verve The Cyclone. Somebody coming off the ride, or the one next door, which involved spinning the participants at great speed one way whilst vigorously accelerating them the other, decided to be sick in the middle of the walkway leading to the rides.
There was a kind of unpleasant fascination involved in not exactly watching but being aware of just how close various passers-by got to the pool of vomit without actually stepping into it. Fortunately the god of over-excited holiday-makers saw fit to protect everyone and then the tension was relieved by one of the workers at the park who came to sort of clear the mess. His action was a reminder of all that goes into running an amusement park – clearing up the mess people leave was obviously a regular part of his work, and he set about the pool of vomit unhurriedly yet methodically. The technique was simple: he launched several scoops full of water from a near-by tap at the mess until it had spread sufficiently widely to be no longer recognisable as a pool. At that point most of those passing by were kind of avoiding the water, but it was obvious that soon everybody would he happily treading bits of regurgitated food into the pathway in happy ignorance of what was beneath their feet. I found this all educational but not exactly enlightening.
Whilst all this was going on Noi and I were still keeping watch on our proteges getting closer and closer to their (1 minute but exciting) ride on The Cyclone. We couldn’t help but notice a fair amount about the crowd around them, not the ones consciously or unconsciously avoiding the vomit but those diligently queuing with our kids. The sheer variation in terms of ethnicity, age and social background was remarkable so I don’t intend to generalise. But what was striking to us both – Noi immediately commented on it to me – was the degree of foul language acceptable in terms of what appears on people’s t-shirts. Well, it was only one t-shirt and it was ‘acceptable’ in that the young lady involved was wearing it and no one seemed to be complaining. Actually she was a fairly nondescript, unprepossessing sort of lass, which was somehow made it all the more surprising that she had chosen to wear a shirt emblazoned with two versions (really rather repetitive), bright yellow against purple, of one of the less acceptable specimens of what is sometimes referred to as an Anglo-Saxon vocabulary. Did her mother know?
It’s not that I have any great objection to the word, or others like it, per se, but it seems to me that the place of such vocabulary is not on the chests of young ladies in amusement parks for the most part frequented by young children. Apart from anything else, it diminishes the potential power and usefulness of such language. The degree to which that language has penetrated the world of civil discourse (I’m thinking here of British television which I occasionally get exposed to back in the UK) is one of the sadder aspects of the generally welcoming leveling tendency of our times.
I didn’t try to get a picture of the offending, or, I suppose, non-offending t-shirt, but there are a few shots above to enjoy if kids having fun is your cup of tea.
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