2013-05-21T16:27:12-04:00 Adam Croft http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/author/index.php?author=adam-croft Copyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc. HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Adam Croft Good old fashioned elbow grease. tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.3069969 2013-04-16T19:00:00-04:00 2013-04-16T12:53:56-04:00

Adam Croft http://www.huffingtonpost.com/adam-croft/
The other night, when pot-bellied Paul told dozy Derek - and the rest of the pub, whether we liked it or not - that his effin' car broke down and that the effin' mechanic couldn't effin' fix it until Tuesday, my thoughts didn't exactly follow the lines of "What an eloquent chap. I must listen more closely to his words of wisdom". However, I'm firmly of the belief that swearing has its place.

Language is full of strength modifiers. We use very, extremely, and some of us even mis-appropriate really, but sometimes these words just aren't enough. The 'spring' we're currently enjoying, for example, isn't very cold. It isn't even extremely cold. It's fucking cold. There is no other word to adequately describe the bone-crunching, teeth-shattering chill which dares to rape the United Kingdom of its well-deserved spring.

Sometimes these words are even unbeatable as necessary insults. Since the release of my first book I have been burdened with an internet troll--whom I can only imagine to be a forty-year-old virgin with a combover, masturbating furiously in a public park in Hull--who insists on setting up new Amazon accounts every other week purely to post vitriolic reviews on my books and those of a select few other Chosen Ones. This gentleman is not a rogue, nor is he a bounder. He is a grade-A, first-class cunt.

Now, I'm not an angry man. OK, yes, I'm an angry man. But the pure, unadulterated release of pent-up stress which comes from using such words is an undeniable pleasure. Even Ned Flanders, of The Simpsons fame, once resorted to 'Aw hell! Diddly-ding-dong crap!' and felt a whole lot better after doing so. We all have our crosses to bear.

Swearing is not a new phenomenon, nor has it increased or decreased in popularity over the generations (or, indeed, centuries). Etymologically, cunt has its roots in Old Norse, but has branched out into various different forms, from the Spanish coño to the French con and Dutch kut. What's vital is that they all sound vile in their native tongues. You don't even need to know the meaning of the word to realise that kut sounds harsh even to the spittle-festooned ears of a Dutch speaker. The word has retained its power to shock, and that is the biggest weapon in its arsenal.

So, as long as our swear words retain the power to shock and convey strength of emotion, more fucking power to them. And that's exactly why the pub's pot-bellied Paul needs to pipe down. Only by using these words liberally, and when the occasion calls for it, can we ensure that their greatest attribute--their power to shock--remains with us. Without that, we'll all have to resort to using very, greatly and remarkably, and that's a Wodehousian world to which only I want to return.

Besides which, the ever-present scourge on society, Germaine Greer, once said cunt "is one of the few remaining words in the English language with a genuine power to shock". If that's not reason enough to swear until the fucking cows come home, then I don't know what is.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2867744 2013-03-17T19:00:00-04:00 2013-05-17T05:12:02-04:00

Adam Croft http://www.huffingtonpost.com/adam-croft/
Winston Churchill called it the 'Black Dog'. Every year, thousands of people in Britain die because of it. One in three people will suffer from it at some point in their life. Why, then, are we so afraid to talk about depression?

The problem is particularly striking amongst my own demographic, young men under the age of thirty. At this age, we're programmed to be strong and manly. We go out and swill beer, party until late and generally put out the alpha-male persona which is expected of us. Inside, though, hundreds of thousands of young males are battling against their inner demons and living through sheer hell.

Some women find it easy to talk - my wife certainly does, anyway. For most men, things are different. We walk it off. We battle on. We certainly don't want to bother our doctor when we're probably just feeling a bit down. Underneath our confident muscle-flexing exteriors, we men have a problem: we leave it too late.

Although I had been on some pretty hefty medication for two years beforehand, the culmination of events last summer meant that I had to tell my family and friends what I had been dealing with. Despite having enjoyed a preceding year which saw me release three number-one bestselling novels, bought my first house and planned my wedding, I was at the darkest point of my life. That's the nature of the beast: when things are bad, you deserve it. When things are good, it's even worse. Good things only happen because you're either lucky or a fraud.

When it finally all got too much for me, just two weeks before my wedding, I snapped at my parents and told them they were no longer invited. I can't even remember what set it off. I then logged into my online banking account and returned all of the money both sets of parents had kindly given us to help us with our wedding arrangements. The money wasn't even there - it would have bankrupted us, but I didn't care.

I also printed off and packaged up two copies of an extensive journal I had been keeping since my diagnosis with clinical depression in the summer of 2010, with the intention of giving them to both sets of parents as some sort of retrospective insight into what I had been dealing with. At that point, my intent was to kill myself.

Writing is a highly therapeutic process, but even that becomes an enormous chore when you are physically unable to get out of bed for days on end. One would imagine light relief would be given upon checking sales reports and and figures from my books. The figures were certainly hugely encouraging and the wonderful reviews and kind feedback were, of course, very nice. Inside, though, I still felt like more of a failure than ever.

It was at the pre-wedding breaking point that my wife decided that my family needed to know about my condition. Five months after, my journal had been packed out with narrative and commentary on what I had been battling throughout and released as We Need to Talk About Adam, a book which details my free-fall into severe depression, most of which was written whilst I was at the darkest depths of my battle. Through giving proceeds from this book to mental health charities, I hope to be able to give something back and - potentially - save a life. That would mean so much more than any sales report.]]>