Twenty minutes into our eleven-a-side football game on the Southdown Tennis club’s hockey pitch, and we’re 2-0 down in the teeming rain. Our formation so far could quite accurately be described as 4-0-6, which means that there are four defenders, there’s nobody in midfield, and everyone else is up in attack. Every time the opposition get the ball, they look like they’re going to score. I’m one of the defenders, and I keep shouting: “Somebody get back into midfield! At least two people need to play further back. We’re outnumbered”. All to no avail. Nobody’s listening. Another opposition attack, nearly a third goal. “We haven’t got a fucking midfield,” I shout, as loud as I can. “We need at least two fucking players to stay back.” The penny drops. A couple of midfielders stay back. We start playing better.
Funny this. There’s a time and a place for swearing. I don’t tend to do it very much, or at least I think I don’t. Then, when I’m in the pub telling a story, out pops an expletive. In some cases normal adjectives just don’t work as well as swear words. Sometimes, in the right circumstances, swearing grabs attention when needed. “I saw a un-be-fucking-leivable film last night”.
Still we don’t do it as well as the Spaniards. I was once in a metro carriage in Barcelona, and a middle-aged, well-to-do woman was standing looking snootily at all the other passengers, as such women tend to do in that city. The train jolted, she nearly lost her footing. Automatically, the following expression tumbled out of her mouth.
“Cago en la leche de tu puta madre”. ‘I shit on the milk of your whore mother’. The train continued, and she regained her composure. The swearing had obviously aided that recovery. Nobody batted an eyelid.
I carry on shouting, and swearing, throughout the match. It’s the correct register for the correct occasion. With our midfield staying back, we end up winning 5-3. Now that’s some fucking comeback. AL