The New Order

Last night over dinner I committed a bowdlian slip. It's a pretty difficult thing to do. Oh sure, anyone can commit a freudian one: Hello, I rather admire your arse... I mean your sportsbra... I mean your face. Not that difficult to accomplish, but a bowdlian slip? Well, first you have to invent the term. Thomas Bowdler was the guy who became famous for making Shakespeare a little easier to stomach, expurgating references to Ophelia's self-obliteration and generally pissing on the grave of the greatest writer of all ever. Basically his mother told him to clean up his language and he took it a bit far. Henceforth this practise became known as bowdlerisation, and Tommy B had his own word! Yeah baby, I'm gonna bowdlerise it up! What are you up to tonight Thomas? Oh, you know, a bit of low key bowdlerisation and a spot of chess. What a dude. So in his honour here is my Bowdlian slip... In my best and politest voice I asked the pen-poised waiter if I could please have the Chicken Bread please. There was a pause and my subconcious looked up, caught guiltily in the act of erasing my lecherous thoughts and cleaning up my dirty, dirty act. The waiter looked at me like a crazy man, by that I don't mean he started dribbling, I mean he raised an eyebrow and signalled for backup. Breast, I said, breast! I'd like BREAST! No, wait! chicken breast! Not an actual breast! a chicken's Breast! I mean- Aww crap.