Mind your language

Why Marina Hyde's use of the word cretin is insensitive and wrong

The Elton John-bothering Guardian columnist Marina Hyde argues for a crackdown on "vile chants" at football matches. Quite rightly, she finds the Arsène Wenger padeophile heckle "hideous", and criticises the "Football Association's strategy of doing precisely nothing". Her case would have been stronger, however, if she had chosen her words with a little more sensitivity herself. Her headline reads: "Chanting cretins need to be silenced".

According to the Oxford Concise Dictionary, a cretin is "a person who is deformed and mentally retarded as the result of a thyroid deficiency". Even the Italian court acknowledges that "it is not OK to call a . . . rival a cretin", or so reports the Life in Italy website. Some time last year, Sarkozy got in trouble for calling a farmer a "poor cretin". It's nasty, and it's politically wrong.

Where the Cretins Motorcycle Club of Seattle and San Francisco -- self-professed "misfits of the motorcycle world" -- wears the word with pride, Hyde seems to be using it in its Urban Dictionary sense:

Football hooligans who wear specific clothing to associate themselves to "their" club and make a point that they are looking for trouble e.g. Burberry caps, jeans etc. Also, football hooligans, loudmouths, drunkards etc in general are typically "cretinous".

Charming. The Urban Dictionary goes on to explain how "cretin" also applies to:

Ethnic minorities whose objective is to intimidate, steal, sell drugs, flunk off school, spew forth native commonalities in a drudgingly pathetic manner (you know, the usual).

I'd feel better agreeing with Hyde if she kept better semantic company. Perhaps her early career as a temporary secretary for the Sun left its mark.

Yo Zushi is a sub-editor of the New Statesman. His work as a musician is released by Eidola Records.

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Poem: "When the Americans came"

“Do you have vampires around here?”

When the Americans came,

they didn’t take to our gardens:

the apple orchard smelling of wild garlic,

foxgloves growing among the runner beans.


“Do you have vampires around here?”

a visitor from Carolina asked me.

It was a shambles, Wilfred knew that,

nodding wisely as though apologising


for the ill manners of King George,

the clematis purple in the thatched roofing.

But come the softe sonne,

there are oxlips in Fry’s woods,


forget-me-nots in the shallow stream,

lettuce and spring onions for a salad.

It’s certain that fine women eat

A crazy salad with their meat*


I tried to tell them. But they weren’t women,

and didn’t care to listen to a boy.

They preferred the red rosehips

we used for making wine.


Danced outside the village church

round the maypole Jack Parnham made.

Now they’re gone,

the wild garlic has returned.


* W B Yeats, “A Prayer for My Daughter”


William Bedford is a novelist, children’s author and poet. His eighth collection of verse, The Bread Horse, is published by Red Squirrel Press.

This article first appeared in the 20 October 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Brothers in blood