The Trouble with Tutting

Tutt at me again, Mothertutter.

In the no-good history of low-down guttersniping, the tut - or tsk-tsk in America? - is the lowliest of the lowly. Concerning human behaviour, this, most definitely, is. No social blunder is deserving of these little clucks of indignation.

These double-wattled tuttlebutts cannot contain their moral outrage, but, somehow, can temper their huffy response below the threshold of speech. The butt of the tutt must feel the full force of condemnation, but the tutter doesn’t risk the confrontation of a dialogue. In the tense tie-break of social expectations, the tut is considered an unreturnable serve*.

In my humble, if universally celebrated, opinion, the tut is a gutless expression of disapproval. These sub-lingual crusaders take the least courageous stand available. Tutting, my friends, is the dialect of cowardice.

Except for pushing in, where even I’ll bite my reared tongue, the offence taken is a thousand snips ruder than the offence committed. Still, these utter tutters carry on with the heavy-handed self-righteousness of a bungled citizen’s arrest.

I’ve been earshot with the ol’ palatto-stacatto for:

- Not packing my shopping quickly enough - Tutt!
- Changing direction in a train aisle - Tutt!
- Strolling on holiday - Tutt!

A tut is often just impatience dressed up in the see-through ballgown of moral superiority. Anyone who feels these tutterings are acceptable is judging strangers through a broken worldview. That initial tut is a forfeiture of any and all Tutter’s rights.

The proper response, of course, is shamed silence.

Now, if I pick up a single ‘t-’ of onomatopoeic scorn, I no longer hang my head. I Tutt back sevenfold - with an aggression no one could describe as passive.

Same goes for the kissing cousins of the tut, the exasperated sigh, or anything in the incestuous family of the bitchier harumphs. If a stranger deflates any judgment my way, I will return that bluster with the avenging glory of a holy tempest.

Watch as the invisible box of judgement cracks around them. The illusion that a tut affords them protection from any sort of recourse is forever broken.

Tutt. Go on, tutt. Tutt at me, again, mothertutter. I dare you.

*Much like the dull service game of hooved ping pong phenomenon Douglas Turner. I bought this observation of him for the price of a mention of his service game.

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