Moroccan Roll

It’s National Anti-Bullying Week in case you didn’t realise.  Obviously this information hasn’t percolated to some far-flung parts of the cyber universe, where the on-line antics of a bunch of grown men in their 40s and 50s have driven yet another fan away from the world’s unfriendliest non-league club. Quite what this dismal set of barbed-tongued, braying jackals gets out of this, beyond the approbation of their idol, the tormentor in chief, is beyond me. Suffice to say; in future I’ll be referring to them as Trumpington, as they consist of a crowd of obsequious hillbillies toadying to a barely literate fascist dictator with a ludicrous hairstyle.

The whole focus of this week’s blog was going to be the fallout from the Jonjo Shelvey case, but as he’s opted to deny the charge of using racially abusive language to Wolves’ Moroccan international Romain Saiss and requested a personal hearing, it seems best to err on the side of caution and not comment in excessive detail about the whole incident. However, I do think it important to place a line in the sand as regards the actual allegation which, I have been reliably informed by an impeccable source, stems from Shelvey’s alleged use of the phrase fucking couscous nonce.

Taking the 3 words under examination as a whole, it is abundantly clear that such a phrase is designed to insult and offend. The first word is an intensifying adjective; it is intended to strengthen the vehemence of the latter part of the utterance, simply because it is a profanity and therefore, generally, taboo in formal or indeed public conversation, if you’ve been brought up nicely.  Admittedly, we’ve come a long way since Kenneth Tynan’s famed debuting of the word on television back in the 60s, but it’s still regarded as the second most offensive word in the English language, according to BBC guidelines.  The final word, originally an item of prison slang, has seen an exponential explosion in its usage over the past two decades, whereby the most extreme obloquy and excoriation in society is reserved for those who sexually abuse children. As a survivor of child sexual abuse myself, I can state unequivocally that it is by far the most humiliating and enduring cruelty inflicted upon an innocent person imaginable. The physical abuse I suffered hurt like hell, but the cuts and bruises from my father’s feet and fists healed over time. The vestigial mental scars from emotional and sexual abuse are there to this day; truly, it took me more than 35 years to come to terms with what happened to me. That’s why I say, the word nonce is undoubtedly the most abominable and abhorrent insult imaginable; it should be used sparingly, directed only at those whose actions mean they fit the epithet.  A defensive midfielder, making his debut in the Championship, should not and indeed does not automatically trigger the conditions that suggest an accusation of being a child sex abuser is permissible.

We are therefore left with the middle word of this three-word expression; Couscous. When used descriptively, in a culinary sense, it refers to small pieces of steamed semolina, generally comprising the carbohydrate bulk in stews, popular across the whole North African region.  It’s a dish I like and Laura hates, so I tend not to make it, but whenever I see pots of it reduced in Sainsbury’s, especially the kind with raisins, I always pick it up for a lunchtime snack at work. However, and let’s be totally clear about this, in the context of the phrase fucking couscous nonce, it is not being used in any culinary way. Such an utterance is designed to be an insult and to offend; to claim otherwise is plainly ridiculous. However, gourmet insults are more popular than you might imagine. The French don’t call the English Les Rosbifs out of respect for the supposedly ubiquitous Sunday lunch staple, but to have a snide dig, which springs from a contemptuous attitude, rooted in a sense of Gallic cultural and culinary superiority. 

Take any powerful European country and you’ll find a kitchen-sink slur directed at a near neighbour; Italians are spaghetti-benders, Germans are sausage-eaters and the French are more than a tad fond of garlic.  If such insults are being traded among and between the major industrial nations listed above, it is pretty much fair game it seems to me. The difference comes when someone from a nation that has held dominion over another, or when the butt of the scorn is a formerly culturally and economically subjugated country, is the one dishing out the digs. This becomes a case, perhaps not of racism, but certainly of cultural insensitivity bordering on the chauvinist arrogance formed over centuries of imperialist oppression.  If Shelvey is found to have used the phrase he’s accused of, then I’d agree it was abusive with racial connotations, because of Morocco’s history as a victim of French and Spanish imperialism, with the enthusiastic support of Britain. One wonders exactly how Achraf Lazaar is feeling at this precise moment.

Saiss apparently speaks very little English and didn’t understand what Shelvey is alleged to have called him, which to me makes it worse and if it were to be proven, I would applaud the Wolves player who reported it to the FA.  If one uses the phrase fucking couscous nonce, one is attempting to hurt, offend or wound; if that is the case, one deserves censure. To all those who claim such insults are too minor to cause offence, I feel you are missing the point; the only person who can determine whether a barbed comment or intended insult is offensive or not, is the recipient.  Going back to my opening paragraph, whether it’s Romain Saiss or a former Trumptington follower who experiences upset or alarm as a result of targeted, personal abuse, it doesn’t matter; the perpetrators are the ones in the wrong and who need to have their unacceptable conduct brought to book.

The Shelvey situation has cast a shadow over this latest international break and the magnificent form shown by Newcastle United in the last few weeks. Wins over Brentford, Barnsley, Ipswich, Preston (twice), and Cardiff have helped to propel the club to the quarter finals of the EFL Cup and opened up an 8 point lead over third place. Indeed, the only source of displeasure for me has been Mitrovic’s conduct in the Preston cup game; his pitiful pleading to take the penalty and booking for taking off his shirt show him to be somewhere between immature and unprofessional. Let’s hope Daryl Murphy is fit again soon, as he’s a far more accomplished player and a calm head we need amidst the blood and thunder of a Championship battle. I worry exactly what Mitrovic will do in the white hot atmosphere at Elland Road for instance.

Of course if Shelvey is found guilty and does receive a ban, then there will be a huge hole in the centre of midfield that we simply don’t want Wearside Jack to be filling under any circumstances. Perhaps Hayden or Diame can do a job there, but such pragmatic practicalities don’t garner clicks on the Chronicle website. Instead, they seem determined to concoct a non-story a day, linking NUFC with every unattached midfielder under the sun. Last week it was Barton and this week it is Gerrard. Can you really see Rafa wanting either of those? Gerrard looks a perfect fit for Celtic, whilst Barton will never eat lunch in this town again.

I am intending to get hold of Barton’s autobiography and possibly Lee Clark’s as well, to contrast the takes on NUFC from two wildly divergent characters and players.  You see I loved Lee Clark and held Barton, paranoid, egotistical fool he is, in utter contempt. Barton, a lifelong Celtic fan, played like one in centre midfield for Rangers and is plainly over the hill. That said, I do feel a large amount of sympathy for him because of his recent diagnosis of stress.

Getting back to National Anti-Bullying Week, to suggest Barton should be insulated against mental illness because of his relative prosperity displays utter ignorance about the nature of depression.  Joey Barton is a whole encyclopaedia of negative behaviours and emotions, but one thing he can’t be accused of is lying about his feelings. Having lived with depression myself, I can tell you it isn’t something you’d wish on your worst enemy, never mind an unemployed footballer.