It is a truth universally acknowledged that there is no more majestic a sound in nature than that of an Irish person saying the word "cunt".
It's been put to me on occasion that some would consider I swear too much. Most recently by my own dad, who told me how much he'd appreciated my post about my mum, but wished I hadn't cursed with quite such frequency.
"I wish you'd cut out the language."
"Sorry, but....fuck no."
And that's not because I don't respect him, or his opinion. It's the beauty of a well-timed, well-earned curse word. There really is nothing like it.
It's poetry. Fucking poetry.
As John Cusack once said in Con Air:
"The degree of civilisation in a society can be judged by observing its prisoners." Dostoevsky said that, after doing a little time.'
As I see it, a far better barometer for judging the merits of a society is in their ability to punctuate a mood with properly placed profanity. There's a music to it that people often cannot hear or appreciate. There's such beauty in language that people need to cease restricting themselves to the "nice" words. Why the fuck would you deny yourself the full range of tone across this linguistic xylophone?
There are still rules to be observed in the pursuit of profane perfection. Don't dilute yours words' impact through overuse, or disproportionate anger. Remain in control. Pick your punches and throw out those verbal bombs as and when needed. Some would say that resorting to swearing in an argument means you've already lost. Not so, I would argue, if you are in control of your emotions when so doing. There's not so many more heartstoppingly decisive moments than a calmly, coldly and expertly placed "fuck", "shit", or "cunt-ficus".
I consider myself incredibly fortunate to have been born, bred and branded in and by my country of Ireland. And my dearest Dublin has given me the ability to vocalise myself in ways that so many other folk could only dream of. Most notably, we are masters of industrial language. Even more fortunate have I been to have lived these last few years in Scotland, where our Celtic brethren continue to display similar (if moderately lesser) eloquence and mastery of the casual fuck you. We are nations blessed by the Gods of Motherfucking Malediction.
We have no equals in expletives, and the only way I will utter a retraction for calling you a cunt is if you can clearly and concisely explain to me how you are not, in fact, a cunt. Consider the following handy guide:
A customer comes into your place of work, and speaks to you as though you're something they've just stepped on when being led through their estate by the stable boy? Cunt's a cunt.
Your team pumps £150m into building a team of attacking all-stars who play like decrepit octogenarians? What the fucking fuck?
Your mother no longer recognises you or the rest of your family owing to a terrible and terrifying medical condition? Fucked.
You're navigating your living room in absolute darkness and your toe is blindsided by a cowardly coffee table with malicious intentions for your ability to walk? Motherfucking table's a piece of fucking shit.
You have now, or have previously worked in a location that's so disastrously mishandled and poorly run by a shower of cretins with a penchant for bullying your department that you face a daily struggle to fathom their ineptitude? Arseholes so adept at turning the venue into the RMS fucking Titanic that their particular skill-set could sink on shitting land.
Blessed are the blue.
In short, I'm sorry dad, but I remain voracious in use of my vocabulary of vulgarity. And some fucking situations just fucking call for it.
