Time to fess up. Come on now. It mightn’t have been today or yesterday, but by God you’ve put your foot in it, misread a situation, and caused offence or amusement by an old-fashioned gaffe. Apart from Donald Trump and Nigel Farage, both internationally known as Walking Big Offence gaffees, most of us on the smaller social landscape have been caught out, or witnessed someone else blundering haplessly. 

And of course, some gaffes can be hilarious, though others occupy what I call Deep Gaffe territory, and are definitely not funny for the group they offend. For example, it’s hard to believe that just over a year ago, the Italian fashion house Gucci was forced to withdraw a (hideous) black $890 sweater after being lambasted with accusations of racism.  

This particular item had an extended neck which came right up over the mouth with a cut-out depicting very large red lips. More unbelievable still, some people defended this cultural gaffe by pointing out that it was, after all, Black History Month in the US. Eh, he-llo? Really? There was I thinking the era of ignorance to race was long gone, in Europe at least. But it isn’t, you know, and it would be naïve to think otherwise, with major fashion houses using turbans (Gucci again, $790), a noose (Burberry, suggesting suicide) and blackface caricatures (both Prada and Katy Perry).  

Politicians are notorious for gaffing (sometimes forgiveably), among them the former Australian PM who bluffed that “No-one … no matter how well-educated … is the suppository of all wisdom …”. Meanwhile at a photocall, former French PM Nicolas Sarkozy was picked up on sound grumbling about the Israeli PM Benjamin Netanyahu: “He’s a liar”, to which a poker-faced Barack Obama replied under his breath, “You may be sick of him, but me? I have to deal with him every day.” 

And so it goes. While these gaffes graze the boundaries of serious misrepresentation, lower down the scale of offence, there’s a certain comedy to some gaffes. Like the time some years ago when I was perched in a Parisian café, about to fork up a slice of tarte au citron, and slipped into conversation with a young American and his smiling girlfriend. Just before they left the café, he paused to compliment me for speaking “really good English for an Irish person” and wondered where I’d learned it. His face was smiling, open, and I couldn’t help noticing that the guy was one of those glossy, beef-hormone enriched mid-Westerners who exude a lifetime’s over-feeding. Pretty pleased with himself too for passing this compliment. But what can you say? Sometimes, there are no words. Sometimes, there are people who don’t know very much about anything, and travel won’t change that. Replete with an inbuilt unknowingness, they blindly traipse around the planet, littering the place with unthinking comparisons.  

I’ve certainly committed gaffes, some I’m aware of, others I remain clueless about. There’s been the three times offence of congratulating a woman who’d merely put on weight, for being pregnant. The risk-of-beheading factor is high here. One of the three, a hairdresser, didn’t hold it against me, but the other two were visibly dismayed. I could see it in their faces, the mixture of indignation and hurt. The words had been uttered and translated into the worst two words most image-obsessed women fear: you’re fat. No apology can sort this one out and anything to do with biology and reproduction is a no-no. So now I keep eyes firmly fixed on faces and never mention pregnancy unless waters break right in front of me and I’m invited to be a birthing companion. 

On another occasion, I complimented a journalist on the beautiful red silk dress I’d coincidentally seen her wear at another function as well, and which I’d remarked on then too. Annoyed, she gave an alligator jaw-snap: “Honestly, you can wear nothing nowadays!” Before stomping away. Oops. 

Yet a little more surreal, a woman of my acquaintance is an ET fan. How she adores the little fellow from outer space, even to the point of once, admiringly, sincerely, laughingly telling her friend that her infant son, with his huge round blue eyes and solid, round head, was “just like ET”. A little surprised by her friend’s sudden sourness, they don’t see too much of one another anymore. But there’s no accounting for attitudes, some people have the conversational hide of a hippopotamus and the ET remark was intended as a compliment until my friend’s husband enlightened her.  

Is it a gaffe now to innocently react against a group whose equality has only recently been sealed? Possibly. Some people won’t understand that you aren’t attacking an entire group if you indulge in a bit of a moan-fest about any of the following: the raised concrete lumps at pedestrian crossings, which hurt feet in fine sandals (First World problem surely?) but are perfect for wheelchairs; the preponderance of people whose gender you can’t identify (and why should it matter?); or if you write critically about obesity. Any comment on body shape is a gaffe. 

Last year I grumbled to a gay friend about how the Gay Pride parade, making its way down Dame Street last year, had blocked off all the traffic. I’d been in a hurry somewhere and my annoyance built as the rainbow of outrageously happy display pranced its way down to City Hall. I sat there, drumming the steering-wheel with my fingers, chuntering in a spiel of four-letter words. I hear you F*c***s. I love you b*ll***s. Now let me drive down Dame Street! Gay friend is still a friend, I’m happy to report, even if he didn’t appreciate my impatience on that occasion. 

The code of conduct for avoiding the social gaffe is probably best kept at a firm No Comment, and that, of course, can be so boring, a bit like the people who used to avoid religion or politics. There’s nothing I like more than to be in the presence of someone who doesn’t insist on smoothing things over. Thankfully, despite having deeply-stocked shelves of language at our disposal, words do emerge misshapen. The darker side of this is that the chance of issues and situations being misinterpreted in black-and-white have never been stronger and consequently the risk of gaffing in a way that causes real and lasting offence, high. Ironic, given that the old shibboleths of the past on behaviour, gender, on the control of women and what they do with their bodies, have been largely dispensed with.  

It’s all a question of sensitivity towards others, especially if you’re not sure of who they are, what their network is, and what the code of behaviour on a given day might be. Some women gaffe all the time by always commenting on what other women are wearing, even in environments where the focus is definitely not sartorial. Why is this a gaffe? Because it’s distracting and may also be a cunning put-down that implies the victim has nothing else to think about.  

On the question of identity today, heterosexual, binary, and cis people have a much easier time of it in day to day doings and as reflected in the world of advertising. They are less likely to be made feel “lesser” than people outside a particular group that sports the same conventional smiles, shapes, haircuts and opposite sex partners. But as life is different now, and the risk of gaffing so much higher, it’s best not to question someone who wishes to be defined as “they”, when it’s a social right. These rights were all hard-won in Ireland, yet despite that, it’s so easy to tear through the delicate fabric of someone else’s exploration of self and sexuality by assuming we are all the same. We’re not, and what we display by action or word may have far-reaching consequences for someone split wide open by an unthinking gaffe.  

Finally – is it possible to live a gaffe-free live? I doubt it. The thing is, we can try to be more gentle with one another. We can test out an apology or three if we get it wrong. And if the apology isn’t really accepted? Well that, my friend, is no longer your problem. 

My motto? Live. Laugh. Gaffe a little. Forgive.