Fuck Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Introduction: Why The F**k Do We Swear?

  1. ORIGINS

  2. EXTENSIONS

  3. EXCURSIONS

  4. BAPTISMS

  5. MOTHERS

  6. EMBARRASSMENTS

  7. SHOWCASES

  8. PROHIBITIONS

  9. IMPOSTERS

  Appendix

  Discography

  Acknowledgements

  More F**k

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Introduction

  Surveys of the British population claim that the nation’s favourite words are ‘serendipity’, ‘nincompoop’, and – isn’t this sweet? – ‘love’. But there is another kind of love in this country, which dares not speak its name; and that’s the love for another word with just four letters, but an entirely different meaning. It’s been with us since the Middle Ages, it’s as British as curry and chips, it rolls off the tongue of the average English-speaker with impressive frequency and ease, and it is surely, in our heart of hearts, the Great British Public’s eternal favourite: the expletive known, and treasured, as the F-word.

  It’s a word from which I was shielded during my sheltered upbringing in an English country village – only to be shocked into brutal awareness when I moved to a large town. Through my early teens, it was still a word used only by other people. But by the time I was ready to leave school, greet the world, and hit the big city, I was as fluent as any docker or sailor in the land. Since then, the trusty F-word has been my companion in times of jubilation or despair, comfort or stress, endlessly adaptable, permanently relevant, and emotionally supportive in the way that only the truest of friends can be.

  As you will see from the pages of this book, the F-word is also the most powerful word in our language, capable of arousing outrage and panic among the greatest in the land. So potent is its force, in fact, that when it explodes unexpectedly, it’s known as the F-bomb, the mortal enemy of live TV and radio presenters around the world. It has inspired poetry and pornography, political protest and potty-mouthed pandemonium, and lots of things that don’t begin with the letter ‘p’. Take your seats, please, for a panoramic 500-year journey through the origins, adventures, and sexual liaisons of Britain’s favourite word. You’ll marvel at its versatility; thrill to its battles with the censors; revel in its unexpected appearances in the most embarrassing places; and, I hope, come away with a richer understanding of what makes that four-letter explosive so appealing, and so all-pervasive. You’ll also learn some new swear-words. And abbreviations. WTF else do you people want?

  Why the F**k Do We Swear?

  Scientists – yes, real ones, with ‘professor’ and ‘doctor’ in front of their names – agree that swearing is good for you. Or, at least, it’s good for you when you’re stressed, under physical attack or have someone with ‘professor’ or ‘doctor’ in front of their names telling you to put your hands into icy water and keep them there.

  That was the experiment run at Keele University, where Dr Richard Stephens discovered that people who shouted swear-words, notably the F-word, could keep their hands in the killingly cold water for 40 seconds longer than those who were only allowed to say ‘My fingers have just fallen off’. The most effective thing to shout, almost certainly, was: ‘Fuck, that’s cold!’, though ‘Fucking scientists!’ came in a close second.

  Over to Dr Stephens for the conclusions inspired by this legalised torture: ‘Used in moderation, swearing can be an effective and readily available short-term pain reliever if, for example, you are in a situation where there is no access to medical care or painkillers. However, if you’re used to swearing all the time, our research suggests you won’t get the same effect.’ Which is bad news for Gordon Ramsay.

  Why is this so? ‘Swearing seems to activate deeper parts of the brain more associated with emotions,’ according to Dr Stephens. These areas are different from those that control the normal production of language. As a result, it has been possible for people to suffer a catastrophic brain injury, which has left them unable to carry out a conversation, without impairing their ability to eff and blind like the proverbial supertrooper. (Research is still continuing into what happens in the brain to cause outbursts of uncontrollable swearing among a minority of sufferers from Tourette’s syndrome.)

  It’s time for another scientist: Professor Yehuda Baruch of the University of East Anglia, who declared in 2007 that swearing can ‘reflect solidarity and enhance group cohesiveness’. In other words, if one person in a group swears, and others feel some kind of bond with him, then they are likely to swear too. Not that this will be a surprise to anyone who’s ever stood in the crowd at a football match.

  One last scientific fact: by accessing an area of the brain left untouched by more delicate language, swearing provides a form of catharsis, bypassing the usual restraints of polite conversation. So swearing relieves stress, and helps to ease the experience of pain. But why do English-speakers, who have an array of foul language at their disposal, almost universally agree that the most satisfying and cathartic form of swearing has to involve the F-word and its various derivatives?

  Here we must leave human biology and head into the realms of psychology. What does the word ‘fuck’ convey? Sex, simply enough; and, beyond that, a degree of violence. ‘Fuck’ is a much more aggressive term than ‘have sex’ or ‘make love’: it can be consensual (between two saucy so-and-so’s who say to each other, ‘Let’s fuck’) but it can also be directly the opposite (‘I’m going to fuck you up’). It breaks two of society’s strongest taboos, and multiplies the impact of both misdemeanours by combining them.

  Taboos don’t exist in isolation: they need a group of people to decide that something is beyond the pale, and then respect that decision. The English-speaking world has chosen to accept the F-word as one of the most offensive terms in its language. As expletives, ‘flip’ and ‘fuck’ perform exactly the same function, but only one of them is like to raise your maiden aunt’s eyebrows. The boundaries of taboo can change: for centuries, any reference to God’s wounds (those suffered by Jesus on the cross, in other words) enjoyed terrifying cultural power. Now ‘zounds’ survives only as an exclamation in comedy sketches about the Three Musketeers. But for more than 600 years ‘fuck’ has remained outside the realms of common decency – and only in the last fifty years has it slowly crept into the mainstream of our culture, to the point where some (but by no means all) newspapers and magazines will dare to print the four forbidden letters in full.

  ‘Fuck’ is also one of the most adaptable and multi-purpose words in the English dictionary, giving it a universal power that is denied to the C-word or the increasingly verboten N-word. It’s also, strangely, an equal-opportunity four-letter word. No races, genders, or minorities are singled out by its use: it divides the world easily into two groups, those who say ‘fuck’ and those who find it shocking. Some people step backwards and forwards between those two categories – the men who swear in the office or in the pub, for instance, but hate to hear the F-word being used ‘in front of the ladies’; or the parents who damn each other to hell, but drag their children away from the telly when Gordon Ramsay’s producer is shouting down his earpiece that he hasn’t said ‘fuck’ enough times yet.

  ‘Fuck’ is, when you get down to it, just a word like any other. But, at the same time, it’s different from every other word you know. Pour boiling water over your fingers, and you’ll soon remember why.

  Origins

  F.U.C.K.? No!

  It is true that F.U.C.K. is an abbreviation for the phrase For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge. But it is not true that this abbreviation is the source of the word ‘fuck’. Neither, for that matter, is another phrase that spells out
the same unseemly word: Fornication Under Consent of the King.

  Both phrases have a legal ring to them, and the hint that they might belong to bygone centuries, and so a pair of urban myths has grown up around the pair of them, in tandem. The explanations that their supporters employ are long and imaginative, but they boil down to a single, gristly core: that men in medieval authority grew so tired of writing out the phrase in question that it was abbreviated to save their time and their quills, and the condensed version survived long after the ancient civil service jargon was no longer relevant.

  For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge was supposed to have been given as an explanation, in official papers and parchments, whenever a case of adultery was discovered and charged. It has even been claimed that the phrase, or its abbreviation, would be written across the stocks when a philanderer was facing the wrath of the people. Not true: adultery may indeed have been a crime in the past, but never under that name.

  At the other extreme, some people were supposed to have been given a special licence to have sexual intercourse, or to produce babies: to these lucky souls, so the theory goes, was given permission for Fornication Under Consent of the King. You have to admit that this is a particularly attractive idea: it’s easy to imagine the heraldic symbols belonging to the King’s 1st Regiment of Shaggers. But, sadly, it’s another invention.

  Not that this prevented the rock band Van Halen from prolonging the myth that Carnal Knowledge was the root of the illicit F-word. In a burst of adolescent bravado, the band decided in 1999 to call their next album Fuck. Once they had been informed that this would prevent the record being sold at almost all retail outlets, they fell back on the old canard about the punishment of adulterers, and named their album after the phrase that spelled out F.U.C.K. Their information may have been way off beam, but not their commercial instincts, as the record reached the top of the American charts. This proved conclusively that none of the buyers at the nation’s biggest and most conservative retail chains – usually primed to slap a sales ban on anything that might corrupt the innocent masses of Middle America – was capable of recognising a blatant reference to the F-word when it was placed in front of them.

  Channel Crossing

  Some of our rudest words can be traced back to those dirty Anglo-Saxons, who seem to have had an anal fixation a full millennium before this crucial stage of child development was first identified. Not content with beating each other over the head with cudgels and writing Beowulf, they made several fundamental contributions to our native tongue. It’s the lads in helmets whom we have to thank for such earthy terms as ‘shit’, ‘turd’, ‘fart’, and ‘arse’ – sparking the 1,300-year-long obsession with potty language that has made us the great nation we are today.

  Enter the French. William’s conquerors may have invaded the country, killed our king, immortalised the battle in a wide-screen (tapestry) epic, and written down all our assets in a big book with a gloomy title; but apart from that, what did the Normans ever do for us? Well, they taught us how to ‘piss’: we must have been desperate to go by the time they arrived.

  After the French, things became more confused: the natives were too busy cooking onion soup and composing chansons to keep track of what was happening to England’s glorious tongue. Those scholars who love wallowing around in the pre-history of foul language, and then have to compile entire dictionaries of more respectable words to disguise their bad habits, are generally agreed that some of our most traditional curse words, such as ‘bum’, ‘cunt’, and ‘twat’, have origins that are, to say the least, rather muddy. Some people would like to place the blame on visitors from Scandinavia, Holland, or Germany, but they all have alibis for the night in question, which leaves us none the clearer.

  So it won’t surprise you that none of these filthy foreigners is prepared to own up and admit responsibility for creating the king of our four-letter words. So let’s examine what we know for sure. ‘Fuck’ (or ‘fucke’ or ‘fuk’ or ‘fukk’ – the same people who thought the Earth was flat weren’t very good at spelling, either) was definitely a part of our language before 1598, which is when John Florio, the original Englishman abroad, compiled his Italian-English dictionary, A Worlde of Wordes. He defined the Italian verb ‘fottere’ as meaning ‘to iape, to sard, to fucke, to swive, to occupy’. Florio soon became the English tutor of Queen Anne of Denmark, and it’s intriguing to wonder how many of those words he taught her before she made any state visits to the British Isles (and also whether he told her what they really meant).

  When I said ‘our’ language above I was being deliberately vague. The prime exponents of the F-word during the sixteenth century were the Scots, which won’t surprise anyone who’s ever watched a Celtic vs. Rangers derby at close quarters. Indeed, they are responsible for all of its pre-Florio appearances on paper. But nowhere even in the distant history of the English tongue is there any suggestion that ‘fuck’ first landed in Scotland, and then surreptitiously made its way south, quickly corrupting Newcastle and Liverpool before finally reaching Eastbourne in about 1973. So we can only assume that, for obscure social reasons, Scots were less embarrassed about using the already taboo word than their English counterparts.

  None of which helps us to discover where we – Scottish or English – picked up such a dirty word. Given that our Anglo-Saxon heritage brought us so much earthy filth, it would be easy to imagine that ‘fuck’ came from the same source. But the Angles and Saxons seem to have been too busy farting to worry about copulation. So, with no evidence of ‘fuck’ pre-dating the French, is it possible that William’s lads didn’t just conquer us but also perverted our vocabulary? Here there is the partial evidence of the French verb ‘foutre’ (sometimes rendered in the past as ‘foutra’), which comes from the Latin ‘futuere’ – both describing the action of sexual congress.

  That might explain the ‘fu–’ of ‘fuck’, but where could the ‘–ck’ come from? Enter the historians who stake the case for the German influence – specifically the verb ‘ficken’ (meaning ‘to strike’, a theme that crops up in several English sex verbs between 1400 and 1800). But though logic might suggest that ‘fuck’ was therefore a French/German hybrid, words don’t evolve that way, with a polite sharing of letters from two different sources to create something new: like the armies that spoke them, languages tend to fight to the finish, knocking out their opponents and establishing themselves on their vanquished turf with all their letters intact.

  In any case, there’s a third strand to consider: from Scandinavia. Old Norse pretty much ruled the roost over all of that territory in the years after William the Conqueror shouted out ‘Harold, is that a bird or a plane?’ and the king of England got an arrow in his eye. And in Old Norse there’s a verb that both sounds and looks like a close cousin of our own faithful F-word – ‘fukja’, meaning ‘to drive’ (as in the sense of chasing things around, rather than getting stuck in a six-lane contraflow on the M1). Two words of Scottish dialect, ‘windfucker’ and ‘fucksail’, seem to confirm that ‘fukja’ did cross the North Sea to Aberdeen and Dundee, although neither of them has the slightest hint of profanity about it.

  But wait: here’s a fourth contender, from another land entirely. Not content with creating Edam cheese, the inhabitants of Holland concocted Middle Dutch, a collection of related dialects that left their mark on Germany as well. Hiding among the multiple terms for clogs and windmills (though very few for mountains) was ‘fokken’ – a verb that meant exactly what it sounds like, widening its terms very quickly (by linguistic standards) from a word for ‘thrust’ to one that implied one person thrusting something into another.

  Case closed, then? Not entirely. Because while the Dutch were busy ‘fokken’, those Scandinavians were keeping themselves warm during the long Nordic winters by developing their own tongues (and not like that). At around the same time, the word ‘fukka’ cropped up in Norway; and ‘focka’ in Sweden, where there was also a noun, ‘fock’, for the male organ.

&nbs
p; So what seems to have happened is that what became known as Great Britain was surrounded by foreigners, all of whom were inventing their own words for sexual intercourse while the Brits were still swapping fart jokes. And during the fifteenth century, one or more of those illegal immigrants crossed the waters and started showing our innocent lads and lasses that there was something in life even more fun than having a poo. ‘What’s that called?’ asked our medieval Gavin and Stacey. And so Britain fell in love with an imported word that, like German lager and Indian food, has become so central a part of our culture that we prefer to think it was ours from the beginning.

  Some Word There Was, Blacker Than Tybalt’s Death …

  ‘A word,’ Shakespeare’s characters are wont to say, as they beg a moment of their companion’s time. But surely one word was forbidden even to this most vocabulary-rich of writers? Could the Immortal Bard really have resorted to the basest of language to please the filthy ears of the theatre-goers at the pit of the Globe?

  Several early editions of his work suggest that he could, and did. Not the F-word, as such, but a six-letter term for someone in the very act of fornication – and not with a timeless heroine, a Cleopatra or a Juliet, but with a more humble member of God’s kingdom: the common British rabbit.

  The offending text, if offence it should cause, could be found in Henry IV Part 1, Act II, Scene iv, in the voice of the one Shakespearian character whom it is possible to imagine effing and blinding in the wings: that buffoonish gourmet and glutton, Falstaff. At which point I refer you to the 1778 edition of Shakespeare’s collected plays: in which Falstaff appears to dare his king to ‘hang me up by the heels for a rabbet-fucker, or a poulter’s hare’. The editor has inserted a helpful footnote from no less an authority than lexicographer extraordinaire, Dr Samuel Johnson: ‘“Rabbet-fucker” is, I suppofe, a fucking rabbet.’ (By the same logic, Dr Johnson would doubtless have explained that a ‘motherfucker’ was actually a fornicating matriarch.)