Cumming on Euphemism

From Varsity, 1 February 2008


The time has arrived to challenge the titular wordplay being inflicted on me by my superiors. It is quite punitive. Euphemism is not like a banana; it’s not inherently funny. But in the right hands, it acquires a life all of its own, and transforms into a power far beyond its original intent. The power of suggestion takes over, and even the most uptight and recalcitrant find themselves drawn to see hidden meanings, unintended by either the author or God. It can be a raw, humiliating experience for both.
It would be wilfully misleading to suggest that my surname has had no effect on my sensitivity to hidden sexual code. Even in my youth, when I was very small, there was always an air of erotic tension around the house. This was never felt harder than during discussion about the family tree.
One conversation, particularly memorable, went like this:
“Daddy?” said a small me, tousled of hair and Malteasered of face.
Bald of hair and stiffly conservative, he replied: “Hello there, son. Is that the family tree? He enquired, pointing to a large, folded piece of paper cocked crisply under my arm.
“Yes, Daddy.”
“Oh, how curious.” He added, before taking a delicate sip from the tall glass of Bristol stout he had perennially at his side. “Why don’t you come and show me what you’ve got.” Eager to please and rosy-cheeked, I bounded across the room and hopped up.
It was always easy to sit on my father’s knee; corduroy is very adhesive.
“I’m perplexed, father.” I said, frowning and sucking thoughtfully on my Malteaser.
“Why’s that?” he shot back, intently.
“Well, it says here that Uncle Adrian is Cumming, but I was giving Mummy a hand when she was doing the Christmas cards and she asked me to fill him out and she told me to do him as Adrian Featherstone. Why is he Featherstone not Cumming?”
“Ah.” Said Daddy, ruminating on his favoured snack, black pudding and stuffing. “Your Uncle Adrian, Edward, was Cumming when he was born, but when he became a grown-up he decided that he didn’t want to be Cumming any longer, and instead wanted to be Featherstone, so he asked the men in charge if they could do it any they said ‘Surely’, so he did it.”
“Oh.” I said.
“Yes.” He replied. “May I have a Malteaser?”
I offered him my bag, and he patted me in gratitude. But questions were welling up in my mouth, and I blurted one out.
“Why did he not like Cumming?”
“I think he was teased at school. All of the boys ran around him, chanting “Hey Adrian, are you coming or going? Coming or going? Coming or going? It’s because Cumming sounds like coming, you see.”
“Oh yes. I think so, because I was late for P.E. on the lawn with Mr. Treetorn yesterday because I was having lunch and he shouted ‘Edward’, and I said ‘I’m coming’, and people laughed.”
“Yes” he said, quite calmly.
“It’s because ‘coming’ sounds like ‘Cumming’, isn’t it, Daddy?”
“Mmmph”, he grunted, in affirmation.
If you catch my drift.