Why I Love Fucking


There’s poetry and beauty to be found in the unlikeliest of places. Perhaps even at the precise moment you’re advised to get fucked or told to fuck off. I especially adore performances by afuckingmazing actors whose cussin’ is nothing short of endearing. Expletive infixation – it’s comfuckingpletely up my street.

All derivatives of His Esteemed Effness can be (parental advisory) music to the ears, but ONLY when used correctly. Whether or not you choose to use the hard G is up to you…. there’s a place for all in the kingdom of fuck. It’s character-building—quite literally.

When a writer has a person to create, it’s important to know how they feel and therefore how they SPEAK. In building those characters, something as simple as the inclusion or omission of the hard G can say so much and make for a solid foundation. When scribin’ a Scouser, or creating a Cockney, you need to FUCKIN’ LEAVE IT OUT. For the posh or pedantic, make the G as hard as you can. Emphasis by inflection is then up to your actor’s understanding of the invented individual they’re about to inhabit.

The greatest fucking characters? Well…..the gorgeously observed Deb Morgan would have you fuck her twice on Sundays, or even sideways at times. You could shit a brick and fuck her with it, but not one single such utterance makes you respect her any less. These words are so beautifully written—and performed—that they are simply audible proof of a soul on display as Jennifer Carpenter sings the swearsome lyrics she’s given.

Then there’s Bruce Robinson’s fucking BEAUTIFUL ART. With such judicious swearing, he gives life to nothingness, breathing oxygen right into the heart of the mundane. “Of COURSE he’s the fucking farmer” is the ONLY way Marwood could have expressed his sopping wet frustration to Withnail at that muddy juncture.

Chuck Palahniuk and Jim Uhls welcome you into their Fight Club, as long as you obey and welcome this rule: they KNOW their characters and will hurl them at your screen until you do too. They make Marla siiing as she informs us that “My God, I haven’t been fucked like that since grade school.” Tyler Durden looks like you wanna look, fucks like you wanna fuck, and through this, we learn that he is “smart, capable, and most importantly…. free in all the ways that you are not.”

Martin McDonagh – what else can I say but FUCK ME, THAT MAN CAN FUCKING WRITE. When you stay over with him In Bruges, he paints colourful mirth as Ken retracts that bit about Harry’s cunt fucking kids. But if ever swearing were appropriate, it’s here, as the perfect antithesis for that Christmas tree somewhere in London, with a bunch of presents underneath it which will never be opened.

McDonagh does it again a few years later with Seven Psychopaths, where he takes you on this journey via his screenplay-within-a-screenplay, and makes you wonder if you can change the title from Seven Psychopaths to The Seven Lesbians Who Are All Disabled And Have Overcome All Their … Shit And Are Really Nice to Everybody And Two of Them Are Black. I can’t analyse how he does it, I don’t WANNA. I just know that he does.

Stephen Adly Guirgis takes on Judas Iscariot’s Last Days, via a courtroom full of street-talkers. It starts beautifully, before a single word, as a woman emerges from her past. It’s funny in parts, too. with some good Little Bits.

Saint Monica is a nag, whose ass gets results, but on first read, I’m not sure whether she gets those results in spite of or BECAUSE of her many mothafuckahs. It’s not only Saint Mon, there are others whose street language just doesn’t scan. I’m told (by very reliable sources) that this is one AMAZESOME play in the flesh. Perhaps those characters leap from page-to-stage, so I’d love to see it FUH REALZ and be proven the fuck wrong.

Where the FUCK does fuck come from in the first place? How did he evolve into this perfect tool for ANGER and PASSION? Fuck’s etymology isn’t certain; he has a plethora of apocryphal acronyms. He wasn’t derived from Fornication Under Consent of the King, nor did he come from Forced Unnatural Carnal Knowledge. That’s all bollocks, stuff of (Urban) Legend. Fuck has his own Wiki page, (check it out) with some far more probable word-birthdom, from the Dutch fokken (to breed, to beget); dialectal Norwegian fukka (to copulate), and dialectal Swedish focka (to strike, to copulate).

However he was conceived, I love Fuck like he was one of my own, and will continue to do so until the day I fucking die.



Come with me, if you will, to a state of omnipresence. A god, you are, on an enormous other-worldly sofa, watching the reality show that is planet Earth, and its wonderful, empathic inhabitants (just suspend disbelief and go with it. Cheers).

This is like having a trillion tv channels….. but the main difference? You’re witnessing everything at the same time. The all-at-onceness of the big bang, your own birth and demise, the end of the Earth, with everything and everynothing in between. It’s but one perspective, no matter how impossible it might seem to our finite, fickle minds. And from this particular vista, do you see time whizz by? Do you see it flow as events unfold? Do you bollocks. Because time (and its BFF-slash-identical twin, space) are static. They’re one and the same – and there’s no now. There’s no such thing as the present. That sentence just there? Gone. Time-flow is an illusion, and no matter how you measure or record it, nothing changes. Spring forward and fall back? Nah. STILL nothing. And time doesn’t exist in any case, being the construct that it is.

And here’s the kicker: what’s your Now might not be someone else’s. Cuz Einstein said so, k?

IMAGE: Here’s a pretty little squiggle of Albie’s block universe, an eternalistic box. Pretty, isn’t it?


If this is LIFE, THE UNIVERSE AND EVERYTHING as you look down upon it, then you can see that from your perspective, it’s all one. It’s static, and sure, it’s seen from an impossible vantage point, but if you roll with it, along with the the closing-off (never mind suspension) of your disbelief comes an OPEN MIND. Honestly – try it. Close your eyes, imagine the hitherto unimaginable.

(Image source: Stolen unashamedly wholesale from Google Images because I couldn’t be arsed making my own.)

The block universe has been said by some to be a bit sucky, because it fails to represent the passage of time – time being one of our most fundamental experiences (even though it isn’t a thing). But who says it’s an irrefutable model of reality anyway? That’s why the word THEORY is just so niiiiice. (Greek – Theoria: contemplation or speculation) And from theories, little baby offshoots are born – theolets, if you will – and like all good thoughts, they grow and grow until they hit puberty and reach A GREAT BIG HAIRY IDEA.

Logic tells us that indeterminate outcomes are governed/caused by (endless) probabilities in the “present.” Quantum objects exist in more than one state until we decide to measure ’em.

Because I’m feeling lazy, I’ll nick something from WIKI here, which pretty much sums it up:

“If the outcome of an event has not been observed, it exists in a state of ‘superposition’, which is something like being in all possible states at once….most quantum physicists now understand that the acts of ‘observation’ and ‘measurement’ must also be defined in quantum terms before the question makes sense. From this point of view, there is no ‘observer effect’, only one vastly entangled quantum system”.

IMAGE: Here’s a picture of a kitty. (Also stolen).Image

Let’s pretend he’s Schrodinger’s kitty. Think of a considerably more upsetting version of Does-a-Falling-Tree-Make-a-Sound-If-Nobody’s-There-to-Hear-It and you’re halfway there. You could also call this “The Observer Effect” (not to be confused with the Uncertainty Principle) if you can’t be bothered trying to spell Schro… Shcro…

So, yeah. Take a cat. Any cat. Preferably one you don’t want any more. Perhaps even someone else’s mog. Box him up with a vial of poison (because the box alone is presumably not cruel enough) and shove in a radioactive source. Add into the mix an all-singing, all dancing monitor that can detect the decaying state (or not) of a single atom, at which point the vial is shattered, releasing the poison that takes out the cat. The Copenhagen interpretation implies that after a wee while, the cat is simultaneously alive and dead. Although logic would have it (DAMN THAT STUFF!) that kitty can either be alive OR dead, never both, we doom-brains can not observe and impact upon the outcome until it’s possibly too late for puss. This poses the question of when exactly quantum superposition ends and reality collapses into one possibility or t’other. When the box is opened, kitty, for all intents and purposes, adopts one or other of his potential forms.

Now, let’s suppose you’re in a car, and even though you’re moving forwards at 80 miles per hour, you’re not wearing a seatbelt (you must be a bit of a deathwishing dick, but whatever). Now, let’s suppose you crash. You twat yourself into that windscreen so hard that you come through and land on the bonnet. In bits. This is because you are travelling at 80 miles per hour as well- and when the vehicle stops, so, my friend, do you. But, depending on the witness and whether they can intervene, you might be indefinably dead and alive at the same time. Not until Schrodinger’s box is opened, or your remains are scraped from the car (or not) does the observer discover the outcome. If there are no witnesses, does the crash still happen? If the observer has intervening potential to change to the outcome, are you a cat in a box?

Why does this stuff give us brain ache? Simple: because we have finite minds. And if we practice, we can surely eventually begin to tease some infinite thought out of those things. Ye cannae change the laws o’physics, but we do have a choice in how we interpret them. It’s a big ask, but if we don’t yet have the answers, there’s nothing stopping us from asking the questions.



The play’s the thing. And WHAT a piece of work is this play: how noble in structure, how infinite in interpretation. In form and moving, how express and admirable.

Our main guy, H, needs no intro, so I won’t give him one (keep it clean, folks). I’d refer to him as the titular character—but I frickin’ hate that wanky-ass phrase, so I’m not gonna. Anywho—he’s as Danish as bacon, his Dad (KING Hamlet—yup) has only gone and snuffed it, and his Pop’s brother Claudius has creepily snapped up H’s mother, Gertrude. Ew. Hence, King Claudius reigns, albeit rather sorta-incestuously-ish.


The Scene: swanky royal castle, Elsinore. Foreshadowing ante: upped to the max.

Some guard-dudes tell Hamlet’s buddy, Horatio, that they’ve seen King H’s ghost. This gets back to young Hammy m’lad, who resolves to see said apparition for himself. That night, the Ghost appears (nicely telegraphed, Shakey) and spookily informs Hamlet that Claudius was the geezer-wot-bumped him off, aurally. Ghostdad demands his son avenge his foul and most unnatural murder; H doesn’t need telling twice, and although he’s not altogether convinced, he goes with the flow, runs with it—feigning madness in the process (it’s Shakey, kids. Everyone’s either nutso or pretends to be).

Anxious about Ham’s increasing bonkersness, two of his chums go undercover to get the goss. Hammy cottons on pretty quickly that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are shifty little shits.

Polonius is Claudius’ counsellor-in-chief, and his daughter, Ophelia, is banging Hamlet. Probably. (She is a Nymph, in thy orisons, and he DOES love her, even more than forty-thousand brothers.) Shortly afterwards, Ophelia meets Hamlet in secret (her Dad and brother Laertes are none too happy about the dude) but tells her father about H’s crazy state. Polonius gives Claudius and Gertrude the heads-up, blaming H’s state on an ecstasy of love. At their next date, Hamlet kicks off at Ophelia, imagining all kinds of incestuous sluttery in his bonce, and insisting that she GET THEE TO A NUNNERY. Niiice.

Hamlet decides to stage a gig (play-within-a-play: Shakey 101) re-enacting his ol’ man’s murder, reckoning he can determine Claudius’ guilt by eyeballing his reaction. After seeing the Character-King murdered with poison in the ears (I told you —aurally), Claudius abruptly fucks off for a bit: PROOF! (It’ll never hold up in court, mate.)

Gertiebaby summons Hamlet to her boudoir (as y’do … bit icky, mind, but whatever). On his way, H passes Claudius praying his little arse off but lets him live, reckoning that death in prayer would send the twat to heaven rather than to the hell he so richly deserves. Hamlet and his Ma have a barney. Polonius, earwigging behind a tapestry, squeaks (or something like that) and Hamlet, believing it to be Claudius, gets a bit pissy and a tad stabby, killing said tapestry. And Polonius. Oops.

Ghostie comes back, nagging H to take Claudius out. Coz, yknow—he got it A BIT WRONG last time, the clumsy fucker. Gertie, blind and deaf to the spectre, is by now pretty certain her son has lost the proverbial plot. Ham hides Polonius’ DB; and Claudius, shitting himself, banishes Hamlet to save his own skin (but not before re-deploying his two spies).

Demented, Ophelia wanders around in bawdy banshee-mode. Claudius convinces Laertes that Hamlet is entirely to blame for all the death and all the crazy.

News arrives (as is often the case) that Hamlet’s badassery is still a threat, so Claudius concocts a fencing match between Laertes and Hamlet, with—GET THIS—poison-tipped rapiers (with a side order of equally bedrugged wine—gotta have a contingency plan).

Gertie reports that Ophelia has drowned. Two conveniently-placed gravediggers discuss her apparent suicide, all the while digging her imminent six-feet-underness. Hamlet arrives with Horatio and one of the gravediggers unearths the grinning skull of a jester. You all know the quote. Or you all THINK you know the quote.

Ophelia’s Laertes-led funeral procession approaches (they organised ‘em pretty quickly in those days). He and Hamlet have a bit of a go at each other but are swiftly told to knock it off.

Hamlet tells Horatio that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead (they have to be. They made a movie about it). He also details his escape, just so WE know Horatio knows …

With Fortinbras’ Norwegian army closing in, it’s Face/Off. It’s time for H and L to fence, grunting and sweating under their weary lives. Laertes pierces Hamlet with a poisoned blade but is fatally wounded by said weapon. Gertie accidentally drinks the poisoned wine (coz reasons) and rushes into the secret house (where she snuffs it). Just before he kicks the bucket, Laertes reveals Claudius’ dodgy death plot to Hamlet. Just before HIS expiry date (keep up, double-oh-seven), Hamlet manages to kill Claudius and names Fortinbras as his heir. Fortie orders Hamlet’s body be borne off in honour. Here’s the rub: (almost) everybody dies. Nobody wins*.

(*Except maybe Norway. It’s one-nil to Norway. Ish. Kinda. Not really. Maybe. I’m confused.)

Thou know’st ’tis common; all that lives
must die; passing through nature to eternity.

^Except for Billy Bob Shakespeare, of course, who gets to live forever. Sigh.