This is a rambling introduction, probably written when high, to the site weswear.net.
I had hoped it would become a depository of filth and fury but sadly nobody took me up on the offer.
It was even more unpopular as an internet idea than dontdoanimalprolapse which, thankfully, I will save the world from actually implementing.
I learned two valuable lesson with weswear.net.
The first was most people saw the name as ‘Wes Wear’ and not ‘We Swear’, making what could have been a profound contribution to profanity some sad clothing stall or whatever.
The second, and biggest lesson was- yes, your mates are your mates but even ask them to write 200 words on a ‘bugger’ or a ‘cock’ or ‘cunt’ or whatever and they will nod yesyes then not actually do anything.
That said, if any clothing hawkers called Wes want the site name then I am prepared to sell it for fuck all.
In the interim- come here for your profanity. It’s all a good luck sigil, really.
Ron Gridcharts x
This is a fairly rambling foreword on the importance of swearing and its own role in my personal journey towards full-on foul-mouthed offensiveness and it’s really not that rude considering. There may be a ‘shit’ in there or a ‘fuckface’. Frankly, I’m too high right now to reread it. But for a brief period this site is Safe For Work, unless you work for the National League Against Profanity or some such pressure group.
As a child, I was taught all the swear words then in existence by the Sex Pistols, or rather by the slightly older lads in the village who were endlessly quoting snatches of ‘Never Mind the Bollocks’.
Thanks to punk, I realised early on the simple thrill of a good swear and would go around singing ‘Frigging in the Rigging’ only lowering my voice at the line “cos there’s fuck all else to do.”
Of course, it was years later before I realised that the word ‘frigging’ itself is a swear word so I am mightily surprised I was never smacked for repeatedly singing it around the house. Certainly, I was smacked for a good deal less in those days. Perhaps my parents didn’t know it was rude either. Or perhaps they had successfully tuned out my junior blather by that point.
Visits to my grandmother, by contrast, were often interrupted by her having an attack of the vapours if either I or my sister let fly with the word ‘damn’ which was a bit hypocritical really as she was defiantly atheist. “Dams are what beavers build,” she’d say, offering us a boiled sweetie. Little did she know, of course, that given a dirty enough mind, the word ‘beavers’ is probably worse than ‘damn’, but little did we know either or we would certainly have sniggered.
‘Fart’, too, was considered a naughty word when uttered by us children, yet when my father let rip with a particularly impressive one, generally when pissing, so proud would he be of it that he would sing “When I’m calling you…” in a deep and impressive baritone, an act that often lead to a parental row.
My mother was never particularly foul-mouthed except when she lost her temper, which was often. When calm she would refer to somebody as “A real ess aitch one tee” but as each day inevitably wound her up to breaking point, by the evening I would lie sobbing in my bed listening to her yelling all the dirty words in the world at my father on the grounds that he had had an illegitimate baby before they met and somehow it had slipped his mind to tell her about it until they had been married for ten years.
I’d remember key words then purposefully choose my moment with mum, asking her innocent-sounding questions such as “Mum, what does ‘fuck’ mean?” or “What’s a ‘cunt’?”, thrilled by the beetroot colour she went and her inevitable response of “I’ll tell you when you’re older.”
She never did.
At school, insults such as ‘spazmo’ or ‘gay lord’ would be more likely to be shouted in the playground than anything truly sweary- in part because the playground supervisor had the hearing- and the features- of a bat and her threats to “Wash your mouth out with soap” could never be entirely dismissed as some old lady thing to say.
Among us kids, however, we all knew how to swear- just like we knew how to look cool on a winter’s morning by puffing on a candy cigarette and pretending the steam we exhaled was smoke. We’d even invent new swear words, such as the time an older vandal painted the word ‘cuntibollocks’ on the outside fence of the village playground.
“But what does it mean?” we asked the vandal who, at sixteen, should probably have grown out of that sort of thing, but in a village that size you needed to make your own entertainment.
“Well, you know what bollocks are, right?” he asked.
“And you know what a cunt is.”
Again, we nodded. One of the girls at school had recently been showing hers to anyone who gave her five pence.
“Well, that’s ‘cuntibollocks’, ennit?” he laughed maniacally before falling over in a manner which, in retrospect, probably owed a great deal to solvent abuse.
While ‘cuntibollocks’ never took off as a new swear word, there was no need for it as seemingly endless new combinations of swears thrilled us then just as much as they do to this day.
While this piece is a deeply personal account of my own awakening into the world of swearing, it is also perhaps a fitting introduction to weswear.net, a new site which is devoted to verbal vulgarity in its many forms.
Here you will find the history and usage of all those naughty words we know and love as well as some old ones lost to general usage and even new ones we’ll probably make up, a bit like ‘cuntibollocks’ but without graffitiing a kids’ play area with it when high on glue. Instead we will spray it directly onto your soul so it can never be unseen.
We are, of course, looking for foulmouthed contributors who would like to join us in this celebration of some of the vilest utterings to come from the mouths of humans. We can’t offer payment because we’re tight cunts and are running this as a third sector not-for-profit project. Our sole intention is to further hasten the end of an already ruined Western civilization and then chisel “It was all bollocks, really” on its headstone.
Some categories such as the history and usage of swear words will obviously be part of the site, and jolly useful to Johnnie Foreigner they will be; but so will regular features such as Cunt of the Month in which we name and shame the biggest current twats; Shit Happens- a scatological-themed exhibit of handiwork; and other things we haven’t thought of yet.
We will investigate swearing worldwide and the different word choices in various English-speaking countries and will hopefully settle the debate, once and for all, of whether Americans over-use ‘motherfucker’ simply because they’re too inarticulate to think of anything else to say or because they actually do want to go to bed with their mothers. We suspect a bit of both, but we’ll find out for sure soon enough.
In the meantime, here’s a dead American singing about ‘Sex with your Parents’ and we will be back shortly with objectionable material that some will find offensive. They can either stick around or fuck off, really.
UPDATE thing here
Yeah, sorry to Americans and custodians of Western civilisation generally.
I am a libertarian and a possible anarchist. To be honest, I hate Socialism massively and all Statists. The State have zero solutions yet the monopoly on violence. Cheers!
(Although, I have a lot of friends invested in that narrative and they are still my friends, despite being misguided (or having ‘False Consciousness’ etc))
Freedom of speech. That kind of thing.
Here’s a sensitive documentary about a teenage sufferer of Tourrette’s Syndrome that everyone at school watched at the time. We pissed our pants for months. Of historical interest, this was the first time the word ‘cunt’ had ever been uttered on British TV. These days even The Great British Cake Off is loaded with c-bombs. And that goes out at teatime.