Crude cards are top shelf reading matter (From Watford Observer)

Crude cards are top shelf reading matter

11:26am Monday 12th October 2009

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There’s a drawer in our house that’s usually stocked with cards suitable for all occasions. From birthdays to house moves and from newborns to thank-yous, there’s invariably something lurking in the desk that’s good to go.

Last week when I realised that I’d almost forgotten the birthday of an exactingly stylish friend who works on the tasselled fringes of the fashion industry, the drawer let me down.

The only vaguely birthday-ish card, discovered crumpled and partially wedged into the gap at the back of the desk, featured an array of moist-eyed kittens at play - a scene so gut-churningly winsome that even as a cat lover I could feel my hypo-glycaemic index nudging the critical end of the scale.

I couldn’t possibly send this to Sacha, not even ironically.

A rootle through the contents of the drawer revealed that supplies were running perilously low. Unless one of my friends produced a bouncing baby boy or got engaged in the near future (not necessarily in that order), the chance of finding a card to suit the occasion was minimal.

Half an hour later I was standing in front of the cards at a trendy new gift emporium, scanning the racks for something suitable.

You’d think it this would be easy, wouldn’t you?

Sadly, these days, unless your circle of friends is derived largely from a Tourettes support group, it’s very difficult to find a witty, amusing card that doesn’t feature the kind of language that even ‘wordsmith’ Jim Davidson would think twice about including in his act.

Most of the ‘humour’ in these cards seems to derive from the fact that a cosy nostalgic image of a suspiciously well-groomed male from a knitting pattern, or a starchy 50s housewife is married to a message or expletive of eye-popping obscenity.

Now, to a point, I agree that these are quite amusing and done well they can be subversive and really appropriate, but a lot of them are simply crude, badly produced and plain offensive.

One card, featuring a sepia image of a child’s birthday party c.1968 (I recognised the biscuits) included the f- word, the c-word and a reference to the sexual activity mentioned by Julian Clary at a BBC comedy awards ceremony that led to him being temporarily banned from the screens.

To be honest, I thought that Clary’s post-watershed reference to Normal Lamont was very funny and quite at home in that context, but I’m not sure that I feel comfortable about a version of the same joke (with more swear words) being displayed at child-height at the entrance to a shop.

Believe me, I’m no prude.

I know - the moment someone says that you’re in for a trucker’s load of moralising, but bear with me here, I honestly don’t think I’m a latent member of the revived Mary Whitehouse United Fulmination Front - or MUFF, as I believe it’s popularly known.

But I do think there’s a time and place for most things, and that place is definitely not three feet above ground level where small children can get at it.

As I stood there, a boy who must have been about eight made a beeline for the card I described above. Bemused, he turned to his mum, who was busy manoeuvring a push chair around a perilous pyramid of china mugs, and asked quite loudly in beautifully modulated Home Counties tones: “Mummy, what’s f******?”

His poor mum spun round faster than Wonder Woman and plucked the offending card from his chubby infant fist. “I don’t know, Jamie,” she said, placing the item on the highest shelf possible. “What a silly card. Now, let’s find something nice for Oscar. Oooh look, there’s a dragon.”

Jamie’s mum and I exchanged a significant look. “Really, I don’t mind, but I do think cards like that should be placed where children can’t reach them.” she whispered, echoing my thoughts completely.

Ironically, when we looked up to the top rack, which even I couldn’t reach without a step, the selection was almost entirely composed of brightly coloured children’s cards featuring cartoon trains, princesses, animals and fairies.

Our thoughts about unsuitability were confirmed a couple of minutes later when we were joined in front of the rack by a small group of girls aged about 12.

Leafing the through the most obscene offerings and passing them from hand to hand before dissolving into fits of giggles, they were apparently hunting for a card for their friend Amy.

“This one’s perfect,” chirruped one of the little angels, flourishing a glitter-encrusted effort that included the most offensive word possible to use about a woman.

“Yeah, s’brill. She’ll love that,” another of them agreed.

I’m perfectly sure, however, that Amy’s mum and dad will not ’love’ it, or indeed welcome the addition of a card featuring the slogan: “When I grow up I want to be a crack whore,” to the range of happy 13th birthday cards adorning the family fireplace.

Mind you, children are obviously growing up a lot quicker these days. When I looked at this gaggle of card choosers (who were all frighteningly articulate and well spoken), I was shocked by the amount of make-up they’d plastered over their very young faces and by their completely inappropriate clothing and jewellery.

Only the fact that they were whippet thin and about five foot high belied the impression that I was standing next to a group of pole workers en-route to their lap dancing club.

What kind of parent allows their barely teenage daughter to leave the house dressed like Jordan? I can only think that a transformation from sweet to sickening took place somewhere in the loos of shopping centre as they met up and made up before hitting the mall together.

I suspect that those cards and their casual availability tell you something about the society we are allowing to evolve beneath our very noses.

The announcement from the BBC earlier this week that it is to reinstate the 9pm watershed for expletives is actually a very good thing.

As I wrote earlier, there is a time and a place for everything and often a comedian or wit can more punch to a punchline with the judicious use of a swear word.

I’m thinking more of waspish actress Coral Browne here than Roy ‘Chubby’ Brown.

One of Miss Browne’s best put downs requires liberal use of the asterisk. After taking Communion at mass one Sunday, she was buttonholed by a garrulous old actor on the steps of Brompton Oratory, anxious to indulge in little catty gossip.

“Not now, Charles,” Coral snapped, “Can’t you see I’m a state of f****** grace?”

See? the expletive actually is the joke.