Several years ago, I punched a friend, Marc… I punched him, and said (something like), “don’t ever do that. Not when I’m around, and even when I am not.”
“No, no. Wait,” he said. “I am gay.” Marc had referred to someone as a “flaming faggot”. Sure, I was being a bit of a twat, but I was sincere. We were in London. It was the early 1990s, and I had over the years become (very) finely tuned to detect bigotry.
Fast forward a few months later. I am at Highbury (what was once the most sacred place in football — don’t @me), we shouted abuse at Tottenham Hotspur fans. After the match, we went down the Nag’s Head for a pint. I overheard someone at a table refer to Spurs as those “@#$%&$% Yids”. I got back on my high horse, but a mate held me back: “No, that’s their nickname. Spurs call themselves ‘Yids’”. After that, I stopped hurling abuse (mainly football banter) at Spurs, because it just felt wrong to harangue a group of “Yids”.