You Can’t Say That Any More
Ivor Vertue, Abacus, £14.99

AS Washington rapidly begins to resemble imperial Rome under a power-hungry absolutist, one might be tempted to revisit Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, but those of a delicate disposition should be warned, the language and tone of this 1599 theatrical masterpiece is dangerously outdated — and today may cause offence.

Indeed, this staple of English literature is a prime candidate for a revision that drags it kicking and screaming into a modern era in which we must navigate our narrative universe using a compass of overindulgent hyper-sensitivity.

Professor Ivor Vertue — aka Bruno Vincent — has selflessly stepped up to help, with an indispensable guide through the minefield of political correctness in which creative media appear to have become trapped. Vertue offers trigger warnings, edits, alternative plots and helpful tweaks for the many books, films and plays today deemed problematic in some quarters for how they use language that we once cherished — in fact, for just about everything produced before 2010.

He provides a tongue-in-cheek take on a very serious issue: the clamour to censor anything published or broadcast in the past that may, by hook or by crook, now be deemed offensive. His book is a response to the blizzard of very contemporary strictures on how we address anything to do with gender, race, religion, physical and mental integrity, unorthodox preferences, hair colour, pets — indeed anything at all that might put the nose of someone, somewhere, out of joint.

We are all familiar with this trend, arguably a species of cultural vandalism, examples of which include alterations by publishers to works by Roald Dahl and Enid Blyton and the ditching from curricula of classics by William Golding and John Steinbeck.

When it comes to Julius Caesar, for example, Vertue offers helpful trigger warnings that this work includes disturbing scenes involving murder and mob violence. It is also packed with problematic quotations, such as “Friends, Romans, countrymen — lend me your ears” (unfair to those with hearing disorders) and “Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war!” (may upset pet owners).

Homer’s Odyssey is a “template of self-righteous boastful toxic masculinity” full of crass references, not least “wine-dark sea” (encourages alcohol consumption) — and the construction of the Trojan Horse (clearly a war crime).  

Michael Bond’s Paddington, enjoying a new lease of life in film, glorifies unhealthy eating by popularising marmalade sandwiches, and the term “darkest Peru” simply will not do. Instead, recommends Vertue, the bear’s origin might preferably be located somewhere on a feeder railway line to London Paddington, such as Didcot Parkway. 

Vertue devotes an entire section to the Bible, a patriarchal fable about a male god passing on the baton to the original nepo baby. The commandments, he suggests, should be stripped of their coercive tone and rebranded “polite suggestions”; Joseph ought to be depicted undertaking a paternity test; and two of the three wise men should be substituted with a woman and a non-binary magus.

The author applies his most scathing humour to some unexpected targets, such as the Shipping Forecast on BBC Radio 4, which he describes as “a redundant upper-middle-class comfort blanket, a kind of ASMR (Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response, or “goosebumps”) Mogadon-by-John Lewis” replete with tricky phrases. “Viking, Trafalgar” is a needless echo of an aggressive, militaristic past; “German Bight”, sounds disrespectful; and “Dogger” is downright inappropriate.

Vertue is described, among other things, as “a prominent intellectual in the growing field of Bowdlerisation Studies,” which is appropriate given that this term originated with Thomas Bowdler’s own effort to sanitise Shakespeare in the early 19th century. 

In the fierce debates that modern Bowdlerisation is provoking, readers can make up their own minds about where they stand — so long as they don’t offend anyone in the process.

But there is little doubt that behind the quips Vertue’s got a point (although perhaps we should refrain from using the word “point,” redolent as it is of knife crime) in case it upsets somebody.