I actually remember the first time I swore. Outside of the words "stupid" and "idiot," which are much more weighted and barbed when you're about five years old, my first curse word occurred when I was helping my Dad wash his Renault in around 2002. The previous week, my friend Jack had come into the school having been allowed to watch The Italian Job with his own father at the weekend, and had taken only a single sentence from his viewing of it. So, it was to some surprise to my Dad when, with all the confidence of someone with zero cultural understanding of who Michael Caine was, I uttered the immortal phrase;
“You’re only supposed to blow the bloody doors off!”
My dad turned off the hose, half amused, half angry.
"Where the hell did you hear that?"
It was here that the concept of swearing became apparent. As a child perpetually terrified of being perceived of being in any way misbehaving, swearing was the first great taboo. Other children in my class seemed to relish in speaking these forbidden words. There was great freedom being away from their parents for the first time, surrounded by peers, and I can imagine it must have felt incredibly liberating dropping those first cursory F bombs. For me, there was the added complication that I was raised a Christian, so at the time, I always felt that I was being watched by Jesus. I loved Jesus, but I was also afraid of him too. Like Santa Claus, he had that supernatural knowledge of everything bad that I was doing. Unlike Santa Claus, the concept of sin had far weightier implications. I couldn’t believe that other children were being so flippant with the concept of their own mortal souls, even using Jesus’s name as a swear. To be honest, I wasn't a particularly badly behaved child, but swearing still felt like the ultimate transgression against God, or, heaven forbid, my mother. I imagined what would happen if I did swear, and was caught by a teacher. At the school gates, in hushed tones, they would literally have to spell it out to my mum, and the shame of it would eat me alive.
It came to a head when I was pushed over in the playground at the age of about 9. Tears in my eyes, bare knees skinned, my face blotchy and red, I outstretched my arm wanting to let my middle finger explain the depths of my anger.
Eff you, I managed to think in my own head, even censoring my internal thoughts.
Externally, the seething childhood outrage could not translate into a puerile extension of my appendages. Instead, my forefinger acted as a kind of substitute, a swear by intention if not accuracy. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I was a little boy cursed not to say curses.
Secondary school was, as it is for everyone, a new reality. The barriers of terrifying early adolescent friendships had to be formed through assimilation. Primary school friends of mine quickly pulled away, probably rightfully determining that hanging out with someone too scared to watch 15 rated films at a sleepover was akin to social suicide. Thankfully, South Park, early YouTube videos and stand up comedians I was too young to be watching became a helpful education into the obscene. So wracked with guilt about this development that I would sometimes make the sign of the cross upon my person - spectacles, testicles, wallet, watch - until it was pointed out that I was a Church of England protestant and shouldn't be emulating the rituals of Catholicism.
As the allure of agnosticism sang its siren song, the concept of sin waned. There’s still lots of things I feel a deep residual religious guilt about, but swearing is not one of them. Initially, I probably overcorrected, and the inside of my car has seen blue language best kept within its five doors. For now though, I feel like I’ve reached a happy medium. As someone who loves language, I think certain words are needed to punctuate the depths of your anger, your passions and desires, your heartbreak. Despite this, I’m still careful not to use the lord’s name in vain around my mother. At 26, I’ve just about managed to get away with the occasional choice phrase, but I honestly think even now she’d rather that I say The C Word at Christmas dinner with my grandparents than take the name of Christ out of context.
Nowadays, I do use curse words occasionally, to better deliver a joke, voice my displeasure about something or to elevate those rare moments of victory.
But I will always endeavour not to overuse them.
I swear.