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Once upon a time in Darwin, the pop song Snoopy vs the Bloody Red Baron of Germany was a radio staple. The guilty artist was The Royal Guardsmen. For anyone unfamiliar, The Red Baron was Manfred von Richthofen, a World War I fighter pilot. Before an Australian took him out, 80 skirmishes broke his way. Manfred earned that Red Baron moniker, but someone in Darwin radio begrudged him the “bloody”. Bloody became bleep. A friend who grew up there says he and his little brothers would sweat on that bleep and shout “bloody!” Censors clipped the Guardsmen. Kids clipped the censors.
In 2025, saying f--- is as common as saying “toaster”.Credit: Getty Images
Hardly anybody says bloody these days. Why bother when you could use that other, tougher word? In 2025, saying f--- is as common as saying “toaster”. Right now, a national swear jar would plunder windfalls dwarfing iron ore royalties. Why is this happening? In a querulous, tumultuous era, are we so bursting to get our points across? Or is it just a prickly outgrowth of a broader, benign garrulousness that has taken root? Maybe we’re all stand-up comics now, riffing and ranting our way through a routine day. Stage or no stage, we’ll have our colourful say.
Blowed if I know. But it’s happening, alright.
Know who is emblematic of the problem? Old ladies, that’s who. Recently, I had a backpack zipper repaired by a woman barely shy of 80. Having cheerfully allowed me to watch her work, in a vexed moment, she let the c-bomb drop. “Curse alert,” she announced after the stunning outburst. It should be noted that she fixed a zipper nobody else could.
But there it is. Nobody is immune. Even a man as bookish and perennially temperate as the president of the United States lapsed, when he provided a coruscating insight into the Middle East. Israel and Palestine had been at each other for so long, he explained, “They don’t know what the f— they’re doing.” Fancy. And there you were thinking plenty of people in that conflict knew – and still know – exactly what they’re doing.
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If nothing else, the aside further fortified the shatterproof bond between profanity and bloodshed. For real cussing, get your hands on a good Vietnam War flick or paperback. I recommend First Blood, by David Morrell. Gangster movies, too, get the job done. But for swearing entertainment in full lawless splendour, try David Mamet’s Glengarry Glen Ross. When the play travelled to London in 1984, it wasn’t uncommon for theatregoers to walk out. After ingesting Glengarry, you’ll agree the question is not, should we be swearing so much, but should we be swearing better? Get inspired. Lift.
Profanity’s evergreen and growing appeal may be rooted in its adaptability. Think about it. We use it to convey anger, despair, disdain, garden-variety drab despondency, mild surprise, volcanic shock, strong agreement, weariness, awe, and intolerable frustration. Is it possible to castigate yourself or catastrophise to a confidante without letting loose? Is it possible to rail against the gravest injustice – another rise in my strata fees? – without turning the air at least baby blue? It’s not impossible that we’ve conditioned ourselves to swear no matter what’s going on. At least Ivan Pavlov’s hounds waited for the bell.
Say what we will about rampant bad language connoting cultural decay and setting a rank example to kids still learning the rudiments of language. Swearing is imbued with a democratic spirit. Like being nice to a dog or disparaging politicians, almost anybody can do it. If somebody is a mendacious, wheedling, swindling semi-sociopath, we call them a prick. If somebody is intractably pusillanimous, they’re a weak prick. Obstinately, wretchedly indolent? Lazy prick. Person of outstanding capability? F---in’ legend. Compact, portable, effortlessly understood, no wonder swearing is a fixture of existence. It’s even a great way to convey empathy. (F---, I wish there was more I could do to help.)
Besides, haven’t we always been a nation of swearers? If you were to jump into your Tardis and find yourself deposited at a barbecue in 1975 or 1805 and stuck around for three drinks, would others be so shocked at your doggedly unrestrained 2025 mouth? Bloody heck, don’t answer that.
James Hughes is a freelance writer.
