THERE MUST have been something in the air this week. Because, on Tuesday last, my angelic three-year-old son shocked a crowded session in our living-room when he was overheard using the same expletive as Brian Cowen - albeit in singular form - during heated exchanges with his eight-year-old brother, writes FRANK McNALLY.
The word was picked up by at least one journalist (the child's father) and by several scandalised members of the public gallery, including his mother. The initial reaction was to hope he had said something less rude - "sucker", for example - and we had just misheard. Unfortunately, any doubt on the matter was quickly eradicated.
Like the Taoiseach, Daniel made his original comment in a quiet aside. Unlike the Taoiseach, he was so delighted with the public reaction that he immediately repeated the word: louder now, and studying the faces of his audience to see if it had the same electrifying effect as the first time.
When it did, his cherubic features lit up with the excitement of discovery. He looked like a miniature Isaac Newton after being hit by an apple.
It was already too late to respond the way parenting experts advise you to respond on these occasions - remaining calm and poker-faced, while suggesting polite alternatives to the infant for the word he has used. But on top of stunning the adults, Daniel had secured a dramatic bonus. His treacherous brother was creased with laughter.
This was like petrol on a bush fire, of course. There was no stopping the incredible cursing baby now. It was like trying to silence ET in that scene where he comes back to life in the medical tent and announces he's going home.
The small mercy - and this probably applies to events in the Dáil as well as our living-room - is that there was nobody in the distinguished visitors' gallery at the time. Because for buttock-clenching embarrassment, there can be few things as bad as when your child discovers swear words during a visit from his proud grandmother, or the public health nurse.
I remember one of Daniel's siblings, when even younger than he is, going through a phase - entirely innocent - of mispronouncing the word "truck". For a while, every time a real or toy one appeared, the baby would say "phuck". At which point, if there were strangers present, we would urgently explain the misunderstanding, while attempting to remain calm and saying to the child: "Don't you mean 'lorry'?"
On Tuesday, our living-room had another echo of the Dáil in that, once we had the baby's language under control again, it was question-time. We needed answers for his behaviour, and fast. If only he had made the outburst 24 hours later, we would have had the unexpected luxury of being able to blame the Taoiseach. But we couldn't do that, so we had to look closer to home. An eight-year-old boy has been helping his parents with their inquiries.
EMBARRASSED as we may feel when our Taoiseach or our three-year-old baby uses swear words, the whole concept of "bad language" remains no less absurd. The "F-word", so called, is almost as old as English itself. So why should it retain such taboo status that, even today - at least in the more respectable pages of this newspaper - it may only appear wearing asterisk-shaped fig leaves over its private parts? In its primary meaning, the word does of course relate to private parts. But it has such a wide variety of other meanings as to be one of the most useful words in the language: a fact proven by its popularity. And yet, when presented in any formal context, it still has the power to cause outrage.
The taboo is as old as the word, whose first recorded use was apparently in a 1475 poem satirising English Carmelite monks. The authors took the precaution of writing it in code. But decoded, the most pertinent line is "Non sunt in celi/ quia fuccant uuiuys of heli"; which, loosely translated, means that the monks "are not in heaven, because they had carnal relations with the wives of Ely".
It was not until 1965 - two years after sexual intercourse began, according to Philip Larkin - that any English dictionary saw fit to include the F-word. Since then, it has been recognised as a verb (transitive and intransitive), a noun, an adjective, an interjection, and even an adverb (as when used between the words "sweet" and "all"). Yet it remains disbarred from polite society - or at least from the reported proceedings of polite society.
In defence of the taboo, there does seem to be a profound need in humans for words that can be used on special occasions to express extreme and otherwise ineffable emotions. The first time I ever used the F-word - outdoors and in nobody else's earshot - was such an occasion. I don't recall now what provoked it, but the memory of emotional release is still fresh. It was like blowing the lid off a pressure cooker.
Returns have diminished through subsequent usage, sadly. But the word is not without power, even now. My suspicion is that the continuing taboo is designed to protect its magical, anaesthetic properties, which were probably well known to medieval doctors, and which may explain why the F-word is still the first thing many of us reach for whenever we hit one of our thumbs with a hammer.