Swearing Is Good for You

by Emma Byrne

  Common Formulaic Swearing Constructions in British English

  You __

  __you

  __off

  __it

  __ing / ___y

  Cunt (noun)

  *

  o

  o

  o

  *

  Fuck (noun, verb)

  *

  *

  *

  *

  *

  Shit (noun, verb)

  *

  ~

  ~

  ~

  *

  Cock (noun)

  *

  o

  *

  *

  *

  Arse (noun)

  *

  o

  o

  *

  *

  Piss (noun, verb)

  ~

  ~

  *

  ~

  *

  Fart (noun, verb)

  ~

  ~

  ~

  ~

  *

  Bugger (noun, verb)

  *

  *

  *

  *

  *

  Damn (verb)

  o

  *

  ~

  *

  o

  Key: * “used regularly”

  ~ “grammatically correct but seldom in use”

  o “grammatically incorrect”

  The British broadcasting regulator, Ofcom, recently carried out a survey of public attitudes to swearing on TV and radio, the results of which I have summarized diagrammatically in Figure 1.8 Of the “big four” types of swearing in British English (religious, copulatory, excretory, and slur-based), religious swearing was considered the least offensive, while slurs—particularly race- or sexuality-based slurs—were considered most offensive. In fact, a soon-to-be-published study of over 10 million words of recorded speech, collected from 376 volunteers, found that many homophobic and racist slurs have disappeared from people’s everyday speech.

  Figure 1: The proportions of strong and mild swearing by category

  Familiar classics like “fuck you” and “bugger off” seem to have been around forever, and they certainly don’t lack staying power. Nevertheless, I’m prepared to wager that these swear words will seem as quaint as “blast your eyes” or archaic as “’sblood” in a few generations’ time. As our values change, swearing constantly reinvents itself.

  How Swearing Changes Over Time

  Swearing is a bellwether—a foul-beaked canary in the coalmine—that tells us what our societal taboos are. A “Jesus Christ!” 150 years ago was as offensive then as a “fuck” or “shit” today. Conversely, there are words used by authors from Agatha Christie to Mark Twain—words that used to be sung in nursery rhymes—that these days would not pass muster in polite society.

  The acceptability of swearing as a whole waxes and wanes over time. The seriously misnamed Master of the Revels, who presided over London theater in Shakespeare’s day, banned all profanity from the stage. That’s why the original quarto editions of Othello and Hamlet contain oaths like “ ’sblood” (God’s blood) and “zounds” (God’s wounds), both of which are cut completely from the later folio edition. By the time a few generations had passed, and “zounds” was a fossil word found only on paper, the pronunciation shifted to “zaunds” and the word lost all connection with its root thanks to the zealous weeding-out of the term from the popular culture of the time.

  The censoring of Shakespeare isn’t the only evidence we have of changes in what counts as socially unacceptable language. Linguists and historians have studied trends over the years and identified a huge shift during the Renaissance in Europe. In the Middle Ages, privacy and modesty norms were very different. Talking of bodily parts and functions wasn’t automatically deemed obscene or offensive. But during the Renaissance, those bodily terms began to replace religious oaths and curses as the true obscenities of the time.

  That evolution is still unfolding, with terms of abuse that relate to race and sexuality taking on the mantle of the unsayable and disability following behind. That’s partly because we’re more aware of the effect of a mind-set known as “othering.” Othering is a powerful mental shortcut that we’ve inherited, way back from our earliest primate societies. We all have the subconscious tendency to identify the differences between ourselves and others and to divide the world into “people like us” and “people not like us.” We tend to be more generous toward—and more trusting of—the people who are most like ourselves. The problem is that for hundreds of years (at least) the more powerful groups have persecuted and exploited the less powerful. And the words we have for those people in the less powerful groups tend to reinforce those patterns of subjugation, leading to some incredibly powerful emotions. Steven Pinker (as a white male) writing in the New Republic, said: “To hear ‘nigger’ is to try on, however briefly, the thought that there is something contemptible about African Americans.”9

  Your discomfort with the word will depend on your attitude to people based on their race, the same way that your discomfort with blasphemy depends on what you believe about deities. I know I’m the product of my age, class, and upbringing (your average forty-something, middle-class Guardian reader), but I definitely find racist epithets and sexuality-based slurs far more uncomfortable than all of the “shits” and “fucks” in the world. I’d much prefer that bodily functions were the source of swearing’s power, rather than somebody’s race or sexuality. Without fucking, most of us wouldn’t be here, and the scatological unites everybody: in the words of the Japanese author Tarō Gomi, “everyone poops.”

  Who Swears and Why?

  I confess that the swear words I do like, I use an awful lot. I’ve used them to make people laugh, to cement friendships and to show a side of myself that’s “tough” or “ballsy.” And, like almost everyone, I’ve used swearing in pain and frustration, as a way of being funny, or of sending a warning that I’m close to violence. Shortly after I started living in France in my early twenties a man cornered me on my way home one evening and decided to stick his hand up my skirt. Despite not having made any particular attempt to learn French swear words I was astounded with the fluency—and the fury—with which I told him to go fuck himself in the arse, the son of a whore. In just a few weeks of watching films and television in French I’d unconsciously picked up enough foul language to scare away a street harasser.

  I’m by no means a special case. While there are some people who insist that they never swear, almost everyone can be pushed into a surprised outburst one way or another (except for a very specific group of stroke patients, whose total inability to swear has helped us to identify the role of emotion in the brain). We do know, however, that men tend to swear slightly more than women, though that gap is narrowing. We also know that left-wingers are more likely to swear on social media than right-wingers,10 and that swearing really isn’t a sign of a stunted vocabulary.11

  There are two distinct types of swearing that I’ll be making reference to throughout this book. Scientists and linguists make the useful distinction between propositional and non-propositional swearing. Propositional swearing is deliberately chosen for effect, and processed mainly in the left hemisphere of the brain for structure, sound, and meaning. Non-propositional swearing is the unplanned, unintended outburst that comes when we’re surprised or hurt, and draws more heavily on the emotion-processing parts of the brain. That’s not to say that propositional swearing is “left-brained” swearing and non-propositional swearing is “right-brained” swearing: the various parts of the brain have to work together in complex ways that we’re only just beginning to understand in order to produce and understand swearing of any kind.

  Even those of us who like to avoid propositional swearing are likely to let out a little non-propositional swearing now and again, but lab conditions mean that propositional swearing is more usually studied. Not because it’s u
nethical to shock someone into a bout of swearing (sometimes quite literally); it’s just that propositional swearing is much easier to get volunteers to produce on demand.

  The Case of the Disappearing Cock and Ass: Notes on Transatlantic Swearing

  One of the difficulties I’ve encountered in writing this book has been the “separated by a common language” factor. So many of the research studies come from North America, New Zealand, and Australia. While some variant of English is spoken in each of these countries, there’s no denying that their swearing habits can be quite different.

  The UK, Australia, New Zealand, and the Republic of Ireland have probably the closest affinity. In each of these countries a proud tradition of jocular abuse and a healthy disrespect for authority combine to make for a robust approach to swearing. The United States and Canada, however, are much more uneven in their attitudes to bad language. There are large segments of society that find swearing of any kind deeply offensive, and who are likely to totally reject propositional swearing of all but the mildest kinds.

  A Victorian-style sensibility still held sway throughout the English-speaking world well into the twentieth century. Winston Churchill claimed that he was rebuked by one American society hostess for asking for breast meat when offered chicken. According to Sir Winston she replied: “In this country we ask for white meat or dark meat.” To make amends, he sent the offended lady an orchid. Being Winston Churchill, he attached a note that read, “I would be obliged if you would pin this on your white meat.”12

  That’s not to say that the UK is without its history of prudery, but genetic drift between the two cultures means that dirty words don’t always translate directly. In the UK, the request “can I bum a fag” is nothing more outrageous than the request to scrounge a cigarette, but a fanny pack sounds positively gynecological. Animal names, too, show a marked distinction. Our cockerels become “roosters” in Canada and the United States; in the States, our cockroach is usually emasculated to “roach.” Here in the UK, however, an ill-treated ass is more likely to end up in a donkey sanctuary than an emergency department.

  That said, the plentiful influence of American culture on the rest of the world has made American swearing familiar to most of us. The opposite is less often true. US audiences might appreciate Downton Abbey and Doctor Who, but neither provides much of a grounding in UK swearing. I’ve had to explain some of the peculiarities of British English swearing to my North American colleagues on several occasions. Those most often eliciting a degree of bafflement are tosser, wanker, and twat, so for the sake of North Americans reading this, here’s my handy guide.

  In the UK, pub drinking is highly ritualized. Drinks are bought in “rounds,” where one person takes it upon themselves to go to the bar and order drinks for the whole group. Each member of the party is expected to take their turn in this reciprocal drink-buying, and to participate in drinking those rounds. This explains why Brits in large groups tend to get drunk enough to fall over on a regular basis: it’s just our way of being polite. Not to participate is—well, I was going to say “not to participate is to mark oneself as an outsider”—in reality, if you want to be thought of as polite not participating in round buying is unthinkable.* So with this in mind, let’s meet Adam, Barry, and Chris.

  •Adam has forgotten his wallet tonight. He has to borrow some money so he can get a round in. Adam is a tosser.

  •Barry has forgotten his wallet but makes no attempt to borrow money. He drinks but doesn’t buy a round. Barry is a wanker.

  •Chris always “forgets” his wallet, accepts a drink at every round and then tries to cadge some money for a kebab on the way home. Chris is a twat.

  In Defense of Swearing

  And therein lies the power of swearing: for all its shock value, swearing is surprisingly subtle. Deployed skillfully, swearing can be cheeky, funny, outrageous, or downright offensive. And when we use swear words, or hear them used, unique things happen in our brains and in our bodies. The use of profanity can help us withstand pain, diffuse stress, bond with our colleagues, and even help us to learn new languages. It’s possibly one of the oldest forms of language we have, given how readily other primates have invented swearing of their own, and it turns out that it’s fucking useful.

  We’re often told that swearing isn’t big or clever, that it’s the sign of a stunted vocabulary or a limited intellect. But I can assure you that swearing can be intelligent and powerful, that swearing is socially and emotionally essential. Not only that, swearing has taught us about our psychology and our societies. And what we’ve learned—and how we’ve learned it—is fucking amazing!

  I’m evangelical in my defense of swearing, not just on the grounds of freedom of expression, but because swearing is beneficial to us both as individuals and as a species. Because it’s so emotive, it’s natural to want to tune out swearing; but research proves we should listen more closely when someone swears, because chances are they’re telling us something important. So I’m not necessarily encouraging people to swear more, but I do hope you might give it the respect it fucking deserves.

  _____________

  * At least until the vomiting starts.

  1 * * * * * *

  The Bad Language Brain:

  Neuroscience and Swearing

  Most of what we know about the human brain comes from trial and error, often more on the error side of that pairing. Some of the biggest breakthroughs in neuroscience have come from investigations no more sophisticated than shoving a finger inside a hole in someone’s head, hanging around Victorian insane asylums and, of course, lots of swearing.

  By cataloging the functions and the structure of the brain, neuroscience has helped us to understand how and why we swear. It’s a two-way street, though: understanding how and why we swear has helped us to reverse-engineer the structure of the brain. Take one of the first and most famous case studies in the history of neuroscience, that of railway foreman Phineas Gage.

  One late September afternoon in 1848, Phineas Gage was hard at work blasting rock faces apart, deep in the heart of Vermont. By all accounts he was hardworking and popular, a man who thrived in the American railroad boom of the 1840s. His bosses thought he was the most efficient and capable man in their employment and they described him in their reports as being “very energetic and persistent.” But it was this energy and persistence that was to change the course of Gage’s life: in one decisive moment he went from railroad pioneer and model contractor to sideshow attraction and medical marvel.

  Gage’s team were busy drilling holes in the rock face so they could blast a path for the railway. The process was a dicey one: first the hole was drilled, then it was filled with explosives and a fuse. Finally, sand was poured on top of the explosives so that everything could be “tamped down”—compacted with a meter-long, six-kilogram rod of iron. No one quite knows what went wrong that day, but as Gage drove his tamping iron into the hole it seems to have caused a spark that detonated the blasting powder and shot the metal rod straight through his head and a further twenty-five meters before it finally landed.

  The first doctor on the scene, Dr. Edward H. Williams, later wrote that the damage was so bad that he could see the gaping hole in Gage’s head even before he stepped out of his carriage, “the pulsations of the brain being very distinct,” he wrote. You’d expect someone with a head wound of that magnitude, at best, to be sitting very quietly feeling sorry for himself but Phineas Gage was—according to Dr. Williams and several of Mr. Gage’s colleagues—sitting up and chatting with his workmates, regaling them with the details of the accident.

  “Mr. Gage persisted in saying that the bar went through his head,” wrote Williams. At first, the doctor didn’t believe the story, thinking instead that Gage had been hit in the face with a flying lump of rock. But then, Mr. Gage “got up and vomited; the effort of vomiting pressed out about half a teacupful of the brain which fell upon the floor.” That’s quite an evocative picture, even if “half a teacupful”
isn’t the most rigorous unit of measurement. And even after that incident, he still remained very much awake and alive.

  Perhaps the most interesting thing about this accident is not that Gage survived, but that this railway foreman became an essential part of the emerging debate on the structure of the human brain. Gage’s accident occurred during a monumental shift in how people thought about the brain, when a debate was raging between those scientists who believed that the brain was like a trifle and others who thought it was more like a blancmange. To explain this dessert-based metaphor, the “blancmange” theory (not an official name) held that our brains are an undifferentiated mass. Each bit is just like the other bits—like a blancmange. But the “trifle” school of thought held that the brain is made up of different parts, each one with a different role to play. If you take away a third of a blancmange you still have blancmange. If you take away one of the layers of a trifle you end up with something even more depressing than trifle. Knowing what we do about brain structure these days, it might seem astounding that the question was ever up for debate, but in 1848 there was no means of scanning the brains of living people, and not many survivors of brain injuries that could be observed in close detail, so the debate raged on.

  Most of what we know about Gage’s condition results from the observations of Dr. John Martyn Harlow, who took over the case. He wrote two papers that describe in detail Gage’s injury and the aftermath: the compellingly titled “Passage of an Iron Rod through the Head” and the equally inventively named sequel, “Recovery from the Passage of an Iron Bar through the Head.”