Linguistic comforts

IT HAS taken a long time, but at the age of 42 I am finally comfortable in my own language. That is to say, I'm happy with the way I say things. (I think I will never become comfortable in my own skin – I am a much shorter man than I actually am and that's why my clothes don't fit me.)

This revelation about language finally hit me last week as I walked out of Alliance having purchased nothing more life-changing than a cheese and onion bap.

Just before I walked out of the place, I left the lady at the till with £1.20 and an honest courtesy and heartfelt endearment.

I said, 'Thanks, love'.

Now, I remember first saying that when I was 15 years old.

It was in a hideous pub called The Three Horses in Keighley, West Yorkshire.

I was with my mate, Dave, and we were both wearing our fathers' suit jackets because this was the first night we were out on the lash.

Though both tall, neither of us had much by way of facial hair, tattoos, rough hands or smokers' coughs. Nothing that could make us at least seem over 18.

But we did have the suit jackets and a swaggering cockiness that only 15-year-olds seem to pull off.

We walked into the pub and, understandably, the landlady eyed us suspiciously.

'This'll be a good 'un,' you could almost hear her think as we got closer to the bar.

'Two pints of mild, please,' said Dave.

'Mild what?' she said.

Oh, she was good. Trying to trip us up at or first hurdle.

'Tetley mild,' I said, taking over. Dave was a Mormon and wasn't supposed to drink.

She let us get away with it. In fact, by the time she had poured us the two pints, she seemed to admire the confident way in which we held ourselves.

'There you go, lads, that'll be 80p, please.' (I know, but it was only that much. This was 1981.)

I gave her a pound note and she came back with the change.

'Thanks, love,' I said, and as soon as I did I knew I'd blown it.

She didn't stand up on the bar and shout out to all the locals: 'These two are underage – drag them into the car park and pistol-whip them.'

And she didn't reach over and gently but firmly take the pints back out of our hands and, whispering, suggest that we get the hell out of her pub.

In fact, she didn't say anything. She just stood there sadly smiling and slowly shook her head.

The smile and the slow headshake seemed to say, both at once, 'You little divvy, you've got a lot to learn', and, 'Don't be too quick to grow up'.

We scurried into the darkest corner of the pub, supped up and got the hell out of there.

I was just too young to say the word, 'love', at the end of my thankyou.

Every day at school I'd say 'miss' or 'sir'. Surely that should have been a measure for me. If you are still saying 'miss' at the end of a sentence, then you are too young to say 'love'.

But everyone uses endearments.

I've used 'mate' for years (that's a timeless, ageless one).

And it can be used pan-gender, though sometimes that's not a good idea, especially given its true meaning.

According to a colleague of mine, one endearment you can never use across genders is the word 'dude'. You can use it girl to girl and boy to boy, but never boy to girl.

If any male greets her with an 'All right, dude?', she'll say, 'Do I look like a dude?'

According to the Collins Dictionary and Thesaurus, the word, dude, is Old West-speak for a city dweller, usually holidaying on a ranch, or a dandy, 'often used to any male in direct address'.

So she's right. She's not a dude.

One that I love is the Guernsey endearment, which is mainly male to male: 'M'cock.' Now, this can sound slightly dubious until you look at Guernsey's geography. Cock might have come from coxswain, the helmsman of a boat (it's even shortened to cox in competitive rowing).

It is similar to the Lancastrian 'cocker' and used in such beauties as 'Flippin' 'eck, m'cock, you were banjaxed last noight?'

An endearment the bloke who ran Leonard's Cafe 20 years ago used to greet people, 'Morning, skip', would further

suggest a maritime theme, alongside 'mate' and 'matey'.

A reversal of an endearment can be found in 'pal'. The last thing the person who calls you 'pal' wants to be is your friend. Putting the word at the end of a question can bring a touch of real menace to your day, as can 'sunshine' and, hardly surprisingly, 'my friend'.

But make sure you can back it up before using it as it may end up like my 'love' faux pas, e.g. 'So, the spaghetti is not to your liking, eh, pal?' and 'No, no, no, my friend. That is not the way the west was won'.

When I stayed on L'Etoile Campsite years ago, all the Northern Irish lads had their own argot and endearments.

'Aye, she's a fair-looking Colleen, so she is,' they would say of an attractive girl.

'Jesus, what a Millie,' for a not-so-attractive one.

Meanwhile, on the same site, there was a depressed Nottinghamshire hippy who would call everyone 'blue'.

'Going to the pub tonight, blue?' he'd say in his slightly

narcoleptic Loughborough lilt.

I think he was trying to project his world outlook onto

everyone he talked to.

It worked, because everyone would be going to the pub that night to cheer themselves up after spending five minutes talking to him.

There have been many words that have come and gone and others that have stayed – red, chef, mucker, chap, chief, boss, bud, buddy, bro, baby, babe, geezer, hon, honey, man – and who knows what we will be calling each other in 20 years' time?

All I know is I am now at that age to confidently call

someone love – which is young enough not to offend older women and old enough not to sound condescending to younger ones.

Or perhaps I just sound like an old, misogynistic, northern 70s throwback to them all.

Eh, pal?