Esther McCarthy: British viewers are shocked at the swearing on The Traitors Ireland. Give me a break

Siobhan McSweeney in The Traitors Ireland

“I am horrified.”

A social media comment — not about the devastation wrought by Storm Chandra, or the latest ICE violations, or Israel’s plan to seize a historic West Bank site.

No, no... This particular shock was reserved for The Traitors Ireland and the appalling discovery that Irish people… gasp... swear!

British viewers, encountering the show via the BBC Player, were so distressed by the language in the show that complaints were lodged about its very suitability for family viewing.

Oh, for feck’s sake. Give me a break. Scroll through the comments and you’d think the contestants were firing physical F-bombs at Baby Jesuses as part of a mission to win a shield or something. Siobhán McSweeney in the background with a whip shouting Fr Ted quotes at them. “Faster, faster, ye fupping pedrophiles!”

One outraged viewer said the Irish use of “foul language” made them “switch off”.

Another langball typed: “It’s sad the amount of cursing. There is no need for it.”

No need? NO NEED?? This is a show about paranoia, betrayal, and psychological warfare conducted in a damp castle with cameras everywhere.

If not, then, WHEN, Britain?

I reviewed the series for this paper, which means I devoured every single episode.

Hand on heart, I never once thought, Ooh, wince, the language is a bit salty. No. It registered as completely normal.

Because it is. It’s how we talk.

And you cannot — and should not — censor how people express themselves, ESPECIALLY when they’re under pressure.

Shur, that’s the whole point. That’s the gold, which is why I find it so funny that Irish viewers didn’t bat an eyelid, while Britain collectively sprained its wrist clutching its pearls once the show landed on iPlayer.

One Facebook commenter asked, earnestly: “In Ireland, is the F word just part of normal speech?”

YES. Next question.

“There were six Fs in a minute. Not a great look for a family show,” they continued.

I’d argue that’s restraint. Come round to our house at 7.33am on any school morning of the week when someone has drank all seven litres of (faddy protein) milk in the fridge and see how many effs you can count. Tis like a Smurf’s fart in our place some days, the air is so blue.

And honestly, can you imagine The Traitors without Paudie stage whispering emphatically, “I’m not being smart here, but I am not a fucking hugger”?

Because I can’t. The show collapses. Dancing With The Stars never gets to show the nation what he looks like in a spray tan and sparkles. That’s not a world I want to live in.

Let’s be honest: those c words (I mean c for complainers) are probably just jealous. Because we’re better at it than they are.

We don’t merely swear. On no, no, no, we construct. We architect. We are GODS when it comes to this shit. We layer meaning, emotion, beauty... Irish swearing is not lazy, it’s artisanal.

A well-placed eff can signal warmth, rage, affection, disbelief, solidarity or imminent murder, depending entirely on tone and timing, and who is within shoe flinging distance. (If your mam never threw a shoe at you, and warned you you’d wake up dead if you didn’t move your arse up those stairs to bed, how do you know she really loved you?)

I personally couldn’t get through a day without an eff here and a bollox there. Occasionally, one sneaks into this column, I’ll admit, and it prompts feedback. But guys, it’s how I speak.

There’s no point doing this week in, week out, if I’m not being authentic — and the real me is a bit of a potty mouth. I’m genuinely sorry if that upsets anyone. Because I don’t swear to shock or offend. I swear to communicate. It’s just punctuation with a bit of emotional range.

Of course context matters. I’m not detonating C-you-next-Tuesday bombs at grandparents and Special Elderly Friends Day in the primary school. I’m not an animal. There is a code.

But thanks to the BBC complaints department, I did have to stop and reflect, and ask myself: Do we curse too much?

Short answer: Yes.

Long answer: Eh, don’t you tell us how to talk.

When you’re smaller, dominated, ignored, or talked over, you sharpen language. You make it musical. You make it sting.

Which might explain why Irish insults sound poetic and our compliments always tend to sound vaguely threatening. We’re just keeping everyone on their toes.

And if you don’t like it, go ahead and switch off. It’s your loss. Because the finale of The Traitors Ireland is fan-fucking-tastic.