No, really – that is the big question I've been asking myself lately.

I'm not proud to admit it but I curse a hell of a lot. Way too much. More than the average sailor; more than Richard Pryor did and more than Damo and Darren do.

I reckon I could make the Gypsy Jokers blush. And I've often wondered why this is so.

Like a lot of people, I guess, I was in my early teens when I first felt the deep satisfaction that accompanies letting rip with a choice profanity.

Honestly, who hasn’t experienced immediate relief upon screaming the f-bomb after painfully stubbing a toe?

For most people swearing is a pressure valve that, released sparingly, has its place and legitimate function.

But unlike most people I developed a mutated view of bad language for some reason. I decided that being “good” at swearing - i.e. swearing just about all the time - was some kind of virtue.

I loved swearing from the get-go and when I started working in newspapers at 18, I found myself in an environment where it was a kind of lingua franca.

A lot of my mates in newspapers and in civilian life were pretty "good" swearers as well. Various girlfriends were, too.

Both my parents swear (Mum far less so than Dad), and my brother, aunties, uncles and cousins.

Even in this company though, no one could hold a candle to the flatus that lurked in my gob -- lest it ignite and level a city block.

While I quickly found myself in a potty mouth league of my own, my aim had never been to insult or offend people: it had been an attempt to amuse them.

For many years my admittedly puerile shtick was to engage in serious subjects like politics, religion, the arts or philosophy and adorn my contribution to discussions with outrageous obscenities, all-the-while maintaining a very engaged and sober facial expression.

It was a kind of irreverent reverse irony if you will.

Somewhere along the way, however, I started to become like the boy who cried wolf - only I’m the boy who cried %#$@!

Like the lad in the cautionary tale, I sometimes found that people tired of my crud and tuned out. I can’t blame them.

More and more when I open my mouth and a sewer of fetid sentences gushes forth, I can literally see people switch off.

Surely they must wonder why a middle-aged man who uses words to make a living finds it necessary to express himself at such a base level in conversation.

Others are outright offended by the senseless vulgarity but by the time I realise this and put a lid on it, it’s too late; I’ve already outed myself as a brainless oaf with a disgusting mouth and, no doubt, a soiled mind to match.

Only I’m not! Not really. I promise! Yes, OK, I have a problem but I can fix it.

I can honestly say that my swearing (see, I’m prepared to own “my" swearing the way an alcoholic will own “my drinking”) started out innocently as a means to get a few laughs.

Sadly it has simply gotten out of hand. Chronically so.

Not only have I caused unnecessary offence, on the face of it my vocabulary has been eroded too.

Constant cursing has worn a groove in my mind into which the stylus of polite, intelligent conversation inevitably slips.

And nowadays it has crept into my work.

For the quarter century I spent as a newsman, the only time I used profanities in published text was when quoting someone else – often in the form of a statement to police or other transcripts admitted as evidence in court.

Or there were the times I invoked an artist or dissident, or interviewed a sweary celebrity who felt unshackled by conventions that constrain most everyone else.

Then - and only then - did I dare to use swear words in stories.

There's a reason we don't read reports like the following in our newspapers:

Wollongong commuters were thrown into absolute *%&!-ing chaos yesterday when some &?$! in a B-double lost control on Mt Ousley Rd and spilt ^%$# all over the freeway, cutting traffic in both directions. 

But when I was offered the opportunity to start penning this column a couple of years ago, I felt compelled to write generally as I spoke (that is to say with an inflated sense of self-importance and a taste for grubby language).

I had never written a "column" before so I just kind of launched into it as I would any rant. As a result, readers have been subjected to all manner of crudeness ever since.

Some obviously don’t mind the swearing at all. Some may even like it.

But plenty of readers do not -- and it's not as if I'm blissfully unaware of the latter group; they're the ones who write letters to the editor (some published, some not) admonishing me for my lack of refinement and good manners.

For a while whenever I'd see those letters (the reader would usually have a go at my position on issues, too) my instinct was to say, "If you don't like it, don't effin' read it."

After one such correspondence a few months ago I started thinking about writing a piece dedicated to the defence of swearing in modern society, partly as a single digit salute to the people I'd decided were wowsers.

But when I finally sat down to write it, the column you're reading now came out instead.

I cannot think of a single reason why I should defend or encourage anyone to use vulgar words when there are so many magical alternatives to choose from.

Nor can I conjure a reason why I should persist with swearing myself - and certainly not for people to pay to read in a newspaper. And I unreservedly apologise to everyone I've offended up until now.

In the past I've quit smoking, drinking and eating crap. It's time I stopped talking it, too.

So, no more swearing from me. You have my word.