Tuesday 1st July 2025
Blog Page 2032

Interview: Rick Stein

0

Rick Stein is, surprisingly, a man rather surrounded by rumours. After a much publicised affair some years ago, and a too many newspaper headlines litter with fish puns, he has kept a relatively low profile with the press, preferring instead to let his TV appearances and his food do the talking for him. On TV he is affable, enthusing about simple pleasures and simple cooking; but there are rumours of a personality change when he enters the kitchen and hints of a temper you’d imagine more fitting for Gordon Ramsay’s more ‘showbiz’ TV cooking.

Luckily, however, I don’t meet him in the kitchen, but in the rather busy Union bar. He happily signs autographs, sits down with a pint, and graciously accepts my compliments on his recipe for shark vindaloo. Obviously, Rick Stein is all about food – in his TV programs he wants food to ‘be the star’, not him. ‘People want to know about how other people cook, it gives you a reason to be in a country. I don’t have to go visit Cathedrals or talk about art, I’m there because of the food… and if I chose to do anything on top of that, like make a political comment, it just falls naturally alongside the cooking.’

Cooking is not all there is to Rick Stein, though. What I hadn’t realised, and what he tells me, is that he’d been a student at Oxford almost forty years ago, and ‘that nothing had changed’, a sentiment that most returning alumni seem to share. He came after a series of gap years, at the age of twenty three; much older than his fellow students, and having travelled Europe extensively, it seems that the academic life was not for him. Unlike his brother, who is now a researcher, Stein left Oxford with a ‘gentlemen’s third’ in English Literature, a fact that he doesn’t seem to mind, because he (clearly) filled his time here with others things, including editing .

‘I got involved in it in the first placed just as a way of meeting people; I met some of my best friends through Cherwell. It’s like joining the union, I suppose. It was just hilarious… We were always trying to have a go at the Oxford Union, just because it’s so full of people with very clear career agendas. We’d lay into them, no worries. It’s a chance to flex your muscles, to decide whether you’re going to be anti-establishment or whatever you want to be. Oxford is the place where you can make mistakes, and bounce back.’

The restaurant industry, however, is a much less forgiving place. Or, at least it is nowadays: one in two new restaurants shut within a year of their opening. For Stein, though, when he left University, the prospect of opening a restaurant was as terrifying- or so he says, hindsight is rather kind when you’re looking back on something that was such a success.

‘It was in the mid-seventies, so the restaurant scene was much less developed than it is today. Opening a restaurant anywhere is a bit of a leap of faith- but in some ways that worked in our favour, because you didn’t need everything working, you didn’t have to put in a lot of capital to open a restaurant’ The difference is that now, everything is ‘so expensive’ and that restaurants that do great food still don’t succeed, it’s rather a lottery. Back in the day, however, Stein says you could let the food do the talking, and that was that. ‘It was more that I’d travelled quite a lot, and realised that you could eat so much better in France and Italy than in England, and I knew that I could do the same sort of thing here. We succeeded on the back of a growth of general knowledge and enthusiasm for good food.’

And now, despite the fact that industry seems to have evolved out of all recognition, Rick Stein doesn’t need to worry about that, he now owns four restaurants. There was, however, a lot of controversy when he began opening restaurants in Cornwall, particularly in Padstow. Stein has family roots there, so it seemed to make sense to open a restaurant, but it was met with some local animosity- the ‘Cornish Army’ has he called them- and headlines declaring that he was pushing prices up and locals out. When I raise this point, I see a flash of the businessman that has got Stein where he is today – but he saves his rather more pragmatic words for the press, who he felt attempted to stir up more trouble than there ever was. ‘All publicity is good publicity. Whether they’re praising the place or saying the locals cant stand it, all you’re doing is keeping yourself on the map. You take it with a pinch of salt. They use us, and we use them.’ It might not be the roaring response that I had wanted, but it is certainly fair.

How then, he is still going? With …. TV programs, including one sans food about John Betjeman, it doesn’t look like he’ll ever sit back and start counting his gold. There’s a simple enough reason for it though. ‘I don’t like being bored. I think the idea of retiring and going on lots of trips with no motives seems silly. I’d sooner go travelling and be paid for it, and I will as long as someone is willing to do that.’ And the work load, it seems, if considerably eased by the fact that he can choose to work, he doesn’t have to. ‘More and more the restaurants are being run by other people, but I just love the whole industry and the camaraderie of it. I wouldn’t want to give it up, as long I have some role to play in it.’

When he says ‘I don’t have hobbies, my life is my work. I’m not stressed’ it doesn’t sound like a cliché (although, it looks more like one in print…) but it is followed by the genuine admission of ‘I don’t feel like I’m missing out on anything.’ I’m inclined to believe him, and to think that I did have to bring up tabloid-esque rumours to get him to tell me something interesting- I didn’t even have to weever fish pun in for my own entertainment.

 

Going Up Going Down

0

Going Up:

Ryan Reynolds

The chump who had minor success by playing Van Wilder, has not only married Scarlett Johansson but has been announced as the new face of Hugo Boss. Clearly a chump no more.

The Winter Olympics

The last Olympic events before London have begun in Vancouver; is it just us who can’t stop humming the Ski Sunday theme tune?

Glastonbury

Muse have just announced that they will be joining U2, Jack Johnson and Dizzee Rascal at the UK’s premiere festival. With a surprise act to be announced to mark the festival’s 40th anniversary, this will one to go to.

Dancin’ Oxford

Of course it’s cool, it’s without a ‘g’! Dance away those fifth week blues with Oxford Dance Festival launched this week. Find that inner Latino with some salsa, or channel some Bollywood with a little bangra. We can’t promise you’ll look cool, but it’ll be fun for sure.

Going Down:

Facebook Friends

60% of people who boast over 170 Facebook friends have admitted to meeting up regularly with only ten of their online buddies. Unsurprising news as the human brain can only process 150 relationships at a time – start pal-pruning!

Decimal Points

They’re clearly going down if Tories don’t understand them. Cameron recently criticised Labour for the fact that 54% of young girls in ten most deprived areas are pregnant. In fact, only 5.4% are – Conservatives just can’t do decimals. Eh, do your maths properly, Dave.

Moaning

Yes, it’s 5th week and yes the weather’s less than enjoyable. But please stop moaning about this and look at the bright side of life – half-way halls, Cardinal’s Cocktails or coffee breakfasts with friends

Sat Navs

After a period of low activity, the Sun is ‘awakening’ again, heading towards a Solar Maximum, which is due to interfere hugely with sat-nav signals, sending drivers off on wild goose chases, and badly affecting emergency service vehicles.

 

A Scenic View: China

0

Clothes shopping in provincial China promises a humiliation all of its own for the Western visitor. I am, as discreetly as is possible under the hawk-like observation of three waif-like sales assistants, sizing up a top and wondering whether it’s worth trying to squeeze into it. Will that go across my shoulders? Are the sleeves going to reach my wrists? I decide to go for it, take the top from the rail and turn decisively towards the changing rooms. One of the sales assistants is by my side in an instant. “Tai xiao le”, too small, she says frankly, pointing at the top and looking at me. She firmly takes it from my hand and replaces it on the shelf, then gestures towards a rail of baggy T-shirts as if to say “now those might fit you!”

She hadn’t meant to embarrass me, of course: it was a typical example of Sichuanese matterof-factness. And besides, she was right. Finding clothes for Western women over a size eight is no easy feat out of the big cities and provincial capitals. Sichuan, which reputedly boasts China’s most beautiful women, is particularly tough; clothes are cut for dainty figures about two thirds my height.

But even where the sizing problem can be resolved, there’s a further consideration: provincial fashion. The look of the young woman in her twenties is decidedly girly. Ornaments and embellishments are in: it is not uncommon to discover a promising-looking summer dress, only to find the front adorned with an assortment of frills, buttons and bows. These are teamed, inexplicably, with (visible) flesh-coloured ankle socks and high-heeled strappy shoes or sandals. The high-heel is ubiquitous, and worn even in the most impractical of situations. I have seen Chinese women climb mountains in heels, undertake punishing hikes, and one on particularly memorable occasion, wield a pneumatic drill. Complete the picture with a parasol – essential protection from the danger of tanning – and the final effect is all a bit Little Bo Peep. Not really me.

For the young and hip, there are trends influenced by Japanese and Korean youth culture. The coolest kids in my English classes proudly sported rip-off Bathing Ape T-shirts and caps, NBA basketball shirts or extremely low-crotched checked trousers with braces attached. The really bold might don the gothic-lolita “harajuku” look, but that tends to raise eyebrows in a – by Chinese standards – small conservative town, so is reserved for special occasions: the school singing competition, for example. Chinese grandmas have their equivalent of Marks & Spencer’s elasticated trousers and cardis – the short-sleeved printed blouse. These garish creations are sold in innumerable shops all over the country, and are to be spotted on what must be about three quarters of women ‘of a certain age’. Their husbands, too, have a uniform: the short-sleeved polo shirt, usually viscose, with the all-important breast pocket for cigarettes. This is worn invariably with suit trousers – a sartorial choice as immutable as the high heels of the twenty-something.

Though it may not all be to my taste, there’s no denying that there’s style at stake here. True, none of this would get far in the catwalks and boutiques of Paris, Milan and New York, but there’s an impressive attention to appearance nonetheless. Next to my Chinese peers, neatly dressed in their pop socks, sandals and floral prints, I didn’t feel I could get away with the slouchy hoodie and leggings student combo on a trip to the supermarket. And when your bus driver and the woman sweeping the street wear elbow-length white gloves to work, you’ve got to step up.

I may not have left Sichuan with a bigger wardrobe, or a penchant for pop socks as a fashion statement, but something of the style of provincial China has stuck with me. You could say I grew to appreciate it. And until I see a woman drilling a concrete road in heels, I refuse to believe her commitment to the cause. Move over, Anna Wintour, this century’s fashionistas rise in the East.

 

It started with hello…

0

A simple handshake between businessmen. A courteous bow in Japan. Rub your nose affectionately with one another among Inuits. Press your forehead to a fellow Maori’s. Put your palms together in a prayer-like gesture and bow your head in Thailand. And smile. Always equip yourself with a smile.

Why then, if the rest of the world always knows exactly what to do when they greet people do the English flounder and grimace when they meet someone new and continue to do so until one of the new acquaintances ventures to add the other as a friend on Facebook and they feel this newfound intimacy warrants a hug or a kiss?

Man on man encounters are usually tolerated without any exterior display of awkwardness. They thrust their heads back, remind themselves they need to firmly establish their territory by the mere touch of their fingertips, stare into the very depths of the other person’s eyeballs and extend their palms. They squeeze tight enough to let their opponent know they are capable of seriously injuring them should the need arise, while trying to inject an inkling of trust into the exchange. The perfect image of common courtesy.

But what then, when a man meets a woman for the first time? Shake her hand? Too formal. A kiss on the cheek? Depends how fit she is, most will say. Too asymmetrical, they might conclude. A kiss on each cheek? Too forthcoming, too French. And there is always the mortifying possibility of unexpected midflight lip-on-lip as you go from left to right, or right to left, or left to left and back. Hug her? Too pally. A derivation of the caveman territory demonstration gesture, she might think. A cowardly wave? Safe, I suppose. But do you opt for the regal side-to-side movement or the tickle motion? The former I hope. Whip out the ‘tickle’ and you’ve already smashed any chances you might have had to smithereens.

You would have thought that if men can follow a more or less seamless routine, without their heads exploding with the conflicting thoughts of the moral implications of their chosen greeting, that women would be able to do the same. They should be able to stare each other down and establish their territory with a mere gesture, within three seconds of catching sight of their opponent. How ironic that the more organised and practical sex should choose not to imitate the handshake routine, the failsafe method successfully employed by men. A kiss on each cheek then? Women always know that the volume of the mwah sound on each side is always indirectly proportional to the sincerity of your greeting, but not making one at all is too sexual. Solution? Revert to Plan B: Look like a tit, execute the cowardly wave.

With all this neurotic panic racing round our heads, you would have thought we could just pick one and execute it with the confidence of a prehistorically established greeting. Instead, we often feel the need just to stand there with our hands firmly clasped to our sides to avoid the risk of seeming too forward, too pushy, too camp. It’s as awkward as the first date. Please make the first move, your mind is screaming, as you make your excuses to leave. Perhaps we should just tell our dates our desired goodbye procedure. It would save romantic awkwardness in the long run.

And if we Brits can’t get it right, how on earth do we cope when we go abroad? Not too well, judging by the slowly articulated ‘Plate of chips’ orders you hear barked out in warmer climes. The kind of phrase that makes you want to feign a French or even German accent for the rest of your holiday. But if that at least gets the message across without the need to translate into any unfamiliar foreign tongue, the silent world of transnational greetings brings things to a whole new level.

As a rather dippy and deeply Westernised Egyptian friend explained to me once, ‘In Egypt, don’t touch a member of the opposite sex unless he is your father or brother, and even then, tread with caution.’ Having met a rather dashing Egyptian boy on the Egyptian beach (think bikinis, jet skis, hedonism) she opted for the kiss on each cheek when they went to say goodbye. Her rather conventional family, spying this, and already outraged that she was talking to a male stranger, ignored her for the rest of the week. She spent the remainder of her holiday trying in vain to explain the role of ‘the French’ in England. And her partner in crime disappeared off into the ether.

Such a simple notion, so many dilemmas. For the first time in my life, I find myself praising the consequences of globalisation. ‘Allô?’ asks the Frenchman when he picks up the phone. ‘Hello Kaa’, purrs the Thai woman as she picks up her Samsung. ‘Haelo!’ enthuse the Bengalis as their polyphonic ring tones chime out into Calcutta’s hectic cacophony. At least we can all telephonically greet someone with relative ease, without having to worry about the appropriate ratio of eye contact to tactility and what not.

But we still haven’t tackled the face to face. Despite almost 2000 years of civilisation, we still haven’t really come up with a solution. Surely someone will soon recognise it as an important priority and write a handbook which we can refer to every time we set out to network. But by then we’ll probably all have telephones for faces anyway.

First Night Review: The Invention of Love

0

Tom Stoppard’s The Invention of Love opened at the Playhouse last night marking the first time the play has been staged in the city of its setting. It seems strange that it has taken so long for a performance to be mounted here, as Oxford is so central to its concerns. It is difficult to imagine it performed in any other city with quite the same pertinence. It recounts the Oxford undergraduate years of A.E Housman as he falls in love with one of his ‘comrades’ – a love which must remain unvoiced – in the context of the historically rich and textured backdrop of the ‘golden years’ of Oxford symbolised through such characters as Ruskin, Pater, and Wilde.

It has been described by some as Stoppard’s most difficult play and, indeed, an intimate knowledge of classical literature would have been helpful. Almost the entirety of the opening act was dedicated to the demonstration of cleverness; the underlying emotions were misplaced, if not quite lost, in long monologues where verbosity ruled. This was not the fault of the script but rather the of the actors, who appeared to become subsumed in the wordiness of their delivery. This was particularly noticeable in the second act when movement from poetry to naturalistic dialogue seemed somewhat strained.

While each actor playing one of the stereotypical Oxford professors was individually skilled, as a group they became generalised and one was indistinguishable from the other. The portrayal of Oscar Wilde left much to be desired: his witticisms became lost in a general caricature, but the difficulty of acting such a famous and admired figure is clear. Matthew Osman, however, played a quietly confident A. E. Housman with great skill and subtlety and, similarly, Joseph Robertson captured the youthful enthusiasm of his younger counterpart with sensitivity. So too was Philip Bartlett particularly noteworthy as the charismatic Pollard.

The set aims at a faux-Grecian mysticism; white drapes adorn carved pillars and flow from raised platforms. The need for ambiguity is logistically necessary, and the play moves from setting to setting with hardly a pause, but unfortunately this necessity has resulted in monotony. A more imaginative use of the same set would have relieved the tedium effectively. This is almost achieved in the second act with the appearance of many roses and French and British flags, though these appear to have more to do with the characterisation of Wilde than any other use. In contrast to this, the use of a boat on wheels was inspired and clearly represented the ‘golden years’ of the Oxford undergraduate as he floats down the Isis.

One hopes that these criticisms are due to first night hesitancy rather than any underlying flaws, although the complexity of the script and the ambition involved in realising it do seem to hinder the play. Yet it was very entertaining with stable acting throughout and some interesting directorial choices. There is a highly amusing sarcastic wit employed consistently and the overall production was interesting to watch. All in all, it is a play that is worth seeing for its ambitious scope, and, as Oxford students, seems particularly relevant in its depiction of the undergraduate years with all their many trials and concerns.

three stars

The Invention of Love is at the Oxford Playhouse until Saturday

First Night Review: Blithe Spirit

0

Blithe Spirit, Noël Coward’s whimsical take on séances and the supernatural, received a spirited first performance at the O’Reilly last night. The strength of the production made one wish that the cast had tackled a more heavyweight play. 

This light-hearted farce revolves around the return of the titular ‘blithe spirit’, Charles Condomine’s first wife, Elvira, from the land of the dead. After an apparently phoney psychic turns out to be quite genuine, Charles (Lewis Goodall) must try to return Elvira to the spirit world. Elvira, however, has her own plans.  The acting was generally very strong, the direction solid. A number of performances stood out. Tatty Hennessy as Madame Arcati was a treat to watch. With some inspired and over-the-top comic touches, she turned a potentially lightweight role into a real performance. Julia McLaren as Elvira was imperious and commanding and an honourable mention should go to Lewis Goodall for the part of Charles. In this highly demanding role, his stamina and energy was impressive, and his characterisation never faltered.

Credit must also go to the production design.  The set was simple and effective, and despite the lack of scene changes the situation never became monotonous.  The costumes clearly and carefully emphasised the 1940s period. Though a few technical issues cropped up, these were hopefully mere first-night tremors, and are sure to be corrected as the run continues. The cast coped well, and were extremely responsive.

With such an excellent team, it would be interesting to see them attempt a stronger script. Of course, Noël Coward’s dialogue is never less than sparkling – but despite the intricate twists and turns of the plot, it remains a rather lightweight piece.  Nonetheless, Blithe Spirit is an amusing and well-acted night’s entertainment.

four stars

 

Blithe Spirit is at the Keble O’Reilly theatre until Saturday.

Overreaction

0

The fallout from the ‘Kill the Jews’ outburst at the Danny Ayalon talk last week has been absolutely spectacular.

Over 30 articles in newspapers around the world mean this has been the biggest Oxford Union story since Shakira, but for considerably less positive reasons. As with every story about the Union ever, most commentators have got completely the wrong end of the stick. Melanie Phillips is particularly strident in the Spectator, claiming that the event illustrates Britain’s (not Oxford, Britain’s!) ‘slide from enlightenment into darkness.’ Most of the stories appear to be sourced from the original Cherwell and OxStu stories and an obscure blog by an Israeli student in Oxford called ‘The Edge of Where.’ All share a general tone of horror at the supposed outrageous behaviour of the students.

Is this not perhaps a teeny, tiny bit of an overreaction? Obviously the student who made the ‘kill the Jews’ comment (if he did – he claims he was mistranslated) was utterly out of order and fully deserves whatever the police or the Israeli embassy decide to throw at him. Also, those students who interrupted Ayalon’s talk did Ayalon and everyone who wanted to listen to him a grave discourtesy – all speakers have the right to be heard. But the protesters were in the minority, and most of them, if rude, were at least making politically legitimate points, of the same sort that have been made by mainstream media commentators around the world.

The Oxford Union gets protests all the time, both inside and outside the chamber. So does any venue that hosts high profile politicians. Some of the protesters are rude, some hold particularly strong feelings, some are unreasonable, many say silly things, some fairly outrageous things. But the presence in Oxford of a dozen or so angry students is not symptomatic of a city wallowing in anti-semitism, nor of a nation’s decline. The only thing it demonstrated is that, in a university of over ten thousands students from all over the world, a small number of them are always going to be idiots. Yes, chuck them out of the room, but don’t blame the whole university for their actions.

 

It’s not plagiarism… it’s intertextuality

0

Goethe. Hesse. Brecht. Grass. Schiller. Mann. Von Kleist (thank you, bookshelf). Some of the greatest writers of all time, and all of them bastions of the German language. But will 17 year old Helene Hegemann, author of the bestseller “Axolotl Roadkill” be counted amongst them? This is doubtful on two counts: Firstly, because her massively over-hyped oeurve is just a conglomerate of “oh so alternative, Berlin youth culture” clichés, and secondly, because she didn’t even write said cliches herself. Huge chunks of the novel were ripped off from a book by a 28 year old blogger who goes by the name of Airen. 

 

The story of a disenfranchised youth taking loads of drugs, going to loads of techno parties and generally throwing tantrums about the establishment and the adult/corporate world has been a huge success in Germany. The book’s publishing house, Ullstein, has already printed 100,000 copies, and, barely 2 weeks after it hit the shelves, “Axolotl Roadkill” is in its third edition. High brow German newspapers like the Sueddeutsche Zeitung and Frankfuerter Allgemeine Zeitung have lauded the work as a “literary sensation”. In light of the recent plagarism claims, the most hilariously ironic review would have to be when the FAZ journalist described the author’s work as “so seductively individual that some hundred other authors will surely try and copy the Hegemann style and fail miserably.” But the German media world are less than chuffed with her now.   

 

And how has the 17 year old Myspace enthusiast/ aspiring novelist responded to these plagarism claims? She seems pretty blasé about the whole thing. Stealing other people’s works is, according to her just, er, “intertextuality”. In a statement released this week, she wrote:”Very many artists use this technique… by organically including parts in my text, I am entering into a dialogue with the author”. In this case, I’m calling dibs on The Tin Drum. I’m sure Guenter Grass wouldn’t mind if I took a few chapters of Oskar Matzerath running riot in the post war moral vacuum in Danzig, and just transposed them into an Oxford setting. (“Down it, fresher!” cried the rugby lad. Oskar screamed so loud as to shatter the surrounding windows of the college bar.)  The author went on to claim that; “There’s no such thing as originality anyway, just authenticity.” I suppose this was the mantra by which she wrote the entire book. Minus the authenticity part.  

 

So why did such a silly book get so many gold stars in the first place? Why didn’t a book brandishing the blurb “The radical voice of the Noughties generation” make its target readership collectively cringe? I think its success is symptomatic of how Berlin youth culture is in denial, and is desperately clinging to its vanishing anti-corporate identity of old and of how the majority of the Berlin “alternative” crowd are now a bunch of rich kids who don’t need to find jobs because their parents pay for them to put on art galleries and wear designer hemp clothes. It’s a far cry from the city’s days as a squatters haven; especially now that the final iconic squat was shut down at the end of last year. Thus, a book that reminds Berliners of just how alternatively debauched they really are would of course sell like hotcakes. Especially when targetted at those young’uns who are just piecing together their fishnet attire in preparation for their first visit to Berghain.  

Musings on the Fanny Pack

0

In the UK, it is called a “bum bag”—the waist-straddling, zippered container popular in 1980s roller discos. Say this to an American though, and she is likely to think of a homeless person’s rucksack. What we call it in the US may in turn raise a few eyebrows over here: a “fanny pack”. While I think both countries can agree in calling it “tacky,” this is unrelated to today’s topic, which is this: how do bad words become bad, and what does it mean to our two countries “divided a common language”? (Incidentally, this quote has been attributed variously to George Bernard Shaw, Oscar Wilde, and Winston Churchill) We begin with a discussion of taboo

Taboo words are those with offensive and emotional connotations. A taboo itself is “a ban or inhibition resulting from social custom or aversion” (American Heritage Dictionary). As psychologist Timothy Jay explains, taboo words are sanctioned, both institutionally and individually, under the assumption that something bad will happen if they are spoken. The institutional restriction comes in the form of courts of law, religious leaders, educators, and semi-governmental agencies. On the individual level, we internalize these official prohibitions, though the exact process by which this internalization proceeds is unclear to modern behavioral scientists. Socially speaking, we learn how to swear from those around us, creating a sort of swearing etiquette.

Language taboos are nothing new—religious proscriptions on the use of profanity go back to Biblical times, and probably before. One thing is certain, however, they are quite varied. Taboo words run the gamut from sexual references (cock, cunt) to blasphemous utterances (goddamn). They include scatological references (shit, crap), animal names (bitch, ass), ethnic-racial-gender slurs (American “fag,” the n-word), references to perceived social deviations (retard, wimp), ancestral allusions (son of a bitch, bastard), and offensive slang (cluster fuck), among other categories.

 

How common is swearing? It has been estimated (McEnery 2006) that swear words occur in spoken dialogue at a rate of 0.3% to 0.5%, with variants as low as 0% and as high as 3.4%. While these numbers are small, Jay reminds us to compare this to a common category such as the first person pronouns (we, us, and our), which account for only 1.0% of speech.  Based on estimates of the average number of words spoken a day, this breaks down to 80-90 swear words a day.

 

Taboo words are far from universal, and are in fact fairly context-dependent. Thus “baby” and “wimp” are more offensive to children than adults, and (traditional) East Asian curse words make more reference to one’s ancestors. How taboo a word is also depends on the appropriate speech style in a given conversational situation—formal speech is expected to be above the use of curse words. As to frequency of usage, (again citing Jay’s statistics), it has been found that socially low-ranking speakers produced higher rates of swearing than did high-ranking speakers (though this is in general in dispute). Men swear more frequently in public than women.  Men say more offensive words (e.g., fuck, shit, motherfucker) more frequently than women do. Women say oh my god, bitch, piss, and retard(ed) more frequently than men do. Men and women swear more frequently in the presence of their own gender than in mixed-gender contexts. Swearing occurs across all age ranges, but swearing rates peak in the teenage years and decline thereafter.

 

Regardless of cultural or gender background, our use of taboo words can be talked about in a very general sense. Psychologist Stephen Pinker delineates five categories of profanity, varying from habitual to meditated. These categories, said to apply cross-culturally, have been admittedly pulled here nearly directly from his most recent book:

 

“1) Dysphemistic profanity – Exact opposite of euphemism. Forces listener to think about negative or provocative matter. Using the wrong euphemism has a dysphemistic effect. (“I have to take a shit,” as opposed to “I have to go do my business.”)

 

2) Abusive profanity – for abuse or intimidation or insulting of others (Ex: “Fuck you, you fucking cocksucker!”)

 

3) Idiomatic profanity – swearing without really referring to the matter. Just using the words to arouse interest, to show off, and express to peers that the setting is informal. (Ex: “Shit, I was pretty fucked up last night.”)

 

4) Emphatic swearing – to emphasize something with swearing. (Ex: “I’m not going to do a fucking thing!” The word “fucking” emphasizes his refusal to do anything)

 

5) Cathartic profanity – when something bad happens like coffee spilling, people curse. One evolutionary theory asserts it is meant to tell the audience that you’re undergoing a negative emotion[citation needed]. (Ex: “Shit, my coffee just fell!”)”

 

(See more here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Profanity )

 

The above two points—that swearing varies based on context and yet shares certain features at a basic psychological level—bring us to our central investigation: despite these shared impulses, swearing varies quite a bit between the US and the UK, and in fact has for some time. We can, again, trace some of this to the conscious decisions of Noah Webster as to what to include in his American dictionary: he disallowed teat, womb, stink, “to give suck”, dung, and fornication as decidedly un-American utterances. Additionally, in 1830s America it became unacceptable to say “pants” or even “trousers” (being called “inexpressibles” instead), and there was a major taboo against the word “leg”, a prohibition which extended even to the dinner table—it was rude to refer to a “leg” of a chicken, the preferred nomenclature being “second joint”. This taboo was found quite peculiar by visiting Englishmen at the time. We follow Allen Walker Read’s lead in quoting the 1824 English visitor to America Isaac Gindler:

 

“what Englishman for example would have an idea there being any impropriety in remarking of a lady that she has a well-shaped ankle, yet this would be too gross for American ears, while to say that she has a handsome leg would be intolerable.”

 

A similar, but reversed phenomenon is found in the use of the word “stomach”  in polite British society of the 1930s.  An American traveler to England in 1936:

 

“One does not utter carelessly and simply, as one does at home, the word stomach in England. It is, and in fact all words pertaining to the digestive functions are, ruled out by English manners. Once in ignorance, I used the forbidden word openly at tea party whereat the atmosphere fell to such a degree that on the following day an explanation and apology were tendered to my hostess by the embarrassed friend whom I was visiting.”

 

Another significant difference lies with the word “bum,” mentioned at the beginning of this post. Despite its harmlessness in America, polite English society has historically taken all major steps to avoid using the word “bum” in conversation, often finding elaborate workarounds:

 

“There is one other word of three letters, whose initial letters is as close as it could be to the beginning of the alphabet without actually being the first which to my disgust is much used in America. Amongst English people it is considered a most vulgar noun, used to describe a portion of the human anatomy, more useful than elegant and never in polite society inferentially referred to as I am now doing”

 

Bringing us up to the present day, the word “bum” has become markedly more harmless. But linguistic differences in taboo persist. A puzzling example is the English “bloody”. Contrary to popular belief, this word does not derive from “by our Lady,” and thus did not receive its taboo from the religious realm. Its ultimate origins are unclear. It has nevertheless taken on a very different life in the US and the UK. Similarly with the US “fag”, the UK “bugger”, “spastic,” “poof,” and “wanker”, and any number of others listed by an impressive H2G2 post.

     

Many would argue that “bloody” has been bleached of its typical, caustically emphatic sense, and to investigate this, it is instructive to look to a report released by the Advertising Standards Authority and the BBC in December 2000. The goal of the report was to gauge the offense taken by the general British populace in response to certain words.  In terms of severity, in decreasing order we have: cunt, motherfucker, fuck, wanker, nigger, bastard, prick, bollocks, arsehole, and Paki, with shag, whore, twat, and piss off trailing slightly behind. Cunt, motherfucker, and fuck have not moved from their top three position since 1998. Bloody ranked near the bottom in terms of offensiveness across all demographic categories investigated.

      

There is a remarkable difference between the standards of American and British television, the latter tending to be more lax with its regulation. Respondents in this same survey noted that compared to British comedies, American comedies contained less swearing and offensive language, and little sexual innuendo. American films, on the other hand, were thought to contain stronger language. What I find most interesting here is an additional comment made by the survey creators: “participants suggested this use of language was less offensive because the culture being depicted was removed from their own and so they could disassociate themselves from the language.”

      

This speaks volumes about the culturally-conditioned nature of offense. Of the top 10 most offensive words as cited by the report, wholly four of them are alien to my American swearing sensibilities (wanker, prick, bollocks, and Paki).  I’m sure a similar list of American swearwords would likewise cause puzzlement around these parts. When you get into the realm beyond the top ten, I honestly don’t know what many of these terms mean. Because of this, like the participants in the study pointed out, these words lose their power. For me, they are stripped of their taboo. It is thus in the position of an outsider to this taboo that I offer the above commentary. In summary, we may share an impulse to swear. But taboo is a bloody complex topic, and it’s pretty goddamned dependent on where you’re from and who you are.   

 

News Roundup: Fifth Week

The Israeli Deputy Foreign Minister’s visit, binge Oxford and the future of the Turl Street Dash. After that, the weekly whirl through the lifestyle pages.