Trajectory A reader has asked me about the word ‘trajectory’—making the point that this seems to have become a trendy, fashionable word. For instance, as this reader points out, a finance report in the newspaper said: ‘the central bank has become more cautious about the trajectory of inflation in the US.’ Clearly the word is being used metaphorically there, but what is the starting point for the metaphor? The word ‘trajectory’ is recorded in English from 1668 with the meaning of ‘that which is thrown or hurled through the air or space.’ We’ve all seen images on television of NASA rocket launches in which we are told that the rocket is ‘on trajectory’—meaning it is flying, first through the air and then through space, on the path it is meant to be on. Somewhere in the background is a Latin source word trājectōrium meaning ‘funnel.’ I suppose it’s possible to see how this Latin-sourced word was chosen to convey this meaning. The notion being that there is a planned path (a funnel) the rocket is meant to travel through. From this there are extended uses. The word is loosely used by gun-makers for the height to which a bullet rises above the line of sight, as in ‘the trajectory of this rifle is one inch in one hundred yards.’ Then we get to what the Oxford English Dictionary calls the ‘transferred and figurative’ uses. And this is where the use of ‘trajectory’ in financial journalism comes in. Inflation is never ‘hurtled through the air or through space’—but we can see what that statement is telling us. It is using the notion of a swooping rocket (or bullet) to portray inflation flying along on a particular path—either flying up or flying down. And if we can plot that path (based on recently movements) we can know (or, at least, guess) what inflation will do next—what its ‘trajectory’ is. As for the word being fashionable or trendy—the reader who raised this might be right. Language, like every other branch of culture, has fads and fashions and trends. Why, I have no idea, but it does. And ‘trajectory’ might just be on upward flight path at the moment.
Left for dead Recently Grammaphobia.com had a very good question from a reader: ‘I'm curious when the phrase “left for dead” became common usage. Why is the phrase not “left to die”? I saw the “for dead” version recently in an article and I began wondering.’ Now, that’s a good question, isn’t it? I think that the key part of the answer is that when this idiom is used it’s not always about dying. For instance, in a race if one competitor is said to have ‘left the rest for dead’ it means that outstanding competitor was miles ahead of the rest, and they just weren’t in the race. They weren’t dying. They were just too slow. At the same time, it sometimes can be about dying. The Merriam-Webster Dictionary says, ‘left for dead’ means: ‘to leave (a person or animal) that one knows will probably die instead of trying to help,’ But, you see, I’m not sure it always does. I suspect the metaphorical use of the idiom is much more common these days. Google’s helpful Ngram viewer shows that ‘left to die’ is more common than ‘left for dead’—and I am suggesting that is because they have very different uses in today’s English. ‘Left to die’ unavoidably means what the Webster says: leaving a person or animal to breath their last. But ‘left for dead’ is, as I said, more commonly used metaphorically. When I worked in radio I can remember those ratings days (the days when the results of the latest ratings survey came out) when a joyful manager would point to the opposition’s numbers and say triumphantly: ‘We left them for dead!’ That I think is the answer to Grammarphobia.com’s question—it’s not ‘left to die’ because it has nothing to do with shuffling off this mortal coil. Mind you, that’s not what the Grammarphobia experts say. They respond confidently: ‘The expression “leave for dead” first appeared in Anglo-Saxon times and has been used regularly since then to mean abandon someone or something almost dead or certain to die.’ Which, I humbly suggest, displays a tin ear as to how the idiom is being used today. Mind you, I could be wrong. In which case, I will be happy to stand corrected.
Left for dead Recently Grammaphobia.com had a very good question from a reader: ‘I'm curious when the phrase “left for dead” became common usage. Why is the phrase not “left to die”? I saw the “for dead” version recently in an article and I began wondering.’ Now, that’s a good question, isn’t it? I think that the key part of the answer is that when this idiom is used it’s not always about dying. For instance, in a race if one competitor is said to have ‘left the rest for dead’ it means that outstanding competitor was miles ahead of the rest, and they just weren’t in the race. They weren’t dying. They were just too slow. At the same time, it sometimes can be about dying. The Merriam-Webster Dictionary says, ‘left for dead’ means: ‘to leave (a person or animal) that one knows will probably die instead of trying to help,’ But, you see, I’m not sure it always does. I suspect the metaphorical use of the idiom is much more common these days. Google’s helpful Ngram viewer shows that ‘left to die’ is more common than ‘left for dead’—and I am suggesting that is because they have very different uses in today’s English. ‘Left to die’ unavoidably means what the Webster says: leaving a person or animal to breath their last. But ‘left for dead’ is, as I said, more commonly used metaphorically. When I worked in radio I can remember those ratings days (the days when the results of the latest ratings survey came out) when a joyful manager would point to the opposition’s numbers and say triumphantly: ‘We left them for dead!’ That I think is the answer to Grammarphobia.com’s question—it’s not ‘left to die’ because it has nothing to do with shuffling off this mortal coil. Mind you, that’s not what the Grammarphobia experts say. They respond confidently: ‘The expression “leave for dead” first appeared in Anglo-Saxon times and has been used regularly since then to mean abandon someone or something almost dead or certain to die.’ Which, I humbly suggest, displays a tin ear as to how the idiom is being used today. Mind you, I could be wrong. In which case, I will be happy to stand corrected.
Pièce de résistance Undoubtedly you have this expression as often as I have. And we’ve heard it used to mean ‘the best or most important thing in a series, which comes after everything else’ (Longman’s Dictionary of Contemporary English). ‘Pièce de résistance’ comes directly from the French, in which it means ‘piece of resistance.’ The term came into English use at the end of the 18th century, and initially referred to the chief dish of a meal, a meaning it also had in French. After some use it then took on an extended meaning, one that is more commonly encountered today, which is ‘an outstanding item or event.’ In case the pronunciation has ever bothered you, here's a guide: the first word should sound similar to pee-ess, de should be pronounced as duh, and resistance is best pronounced as ree-sist-tahnse. In fact, I’ve often heard it given the joking English pronunciation of ‘piece of resistance’—which is a translation, not a pronunciation. But why should the best bit—the last, great course in a meal, or anything else that tops the score—be resisted at all? I mean, if it’s the best, why resist it? This phrase is (obviously) a direct from the French. English sometimes adopts and sometimes adapts foreign words. This one is an adoption, not an adaption. It’s been part of English since at least 1789. But, still that nagging worry remains: why resist the best bit? I have only found one explanation, and there is not a lot of support for it. But, for what it’s worth—here it is. The origin of ‘pièce de résistance’ began life not in cookery but in artillery. It is said that the most impressive defensive cannon a fort boasted was called its ‘pièce de résistance’—which at least makes some sense, since what canons do is resist the enemy. The notion is that the phrase became well known and was borrowed by chefs for the spectacular grand finale in their banquet—the biggest and most impressive. If this is how it began, then it is similar to the English expression ‘bringing out the big guns.’ And, of course, the word ‘piece’ is also used in artillery—a large gun is called a ‘big artillery piece.’ That’s the claim. It has the whiff of folk etymology about—so I am not confident. On other hand, I can find no other explanation.
Wild and woolly A particularly ferocious storm was described in a newspaper as being ‘wild and woolly.’ In fact, anything that is fairly chaotic and out of control can be labelled ‘wild and woolly.’ The ‘wild’ part is fairly obvious—but why ‘woolly’? All of the experts I consulted agree that it comes from the Old West in America. Merrian-Websters dictionary says ‘wild and woolly’ means: ‘boisterous and untamed’. They say it’s recorded from 1884 from a book called Rangers & Pioneers of Texas. And the puzzling bit (the word ‘woolly’) may refer to the sheepskin clothing (with the wool still attached) which was, at one time, the characteristic clothing of pioneers and cowboys. Well, that’s possible, but not absolutely certain. There may be more to the story. Some accounts take this phrase as far back as the California gold rush of the 1850s. Mr Phrase Finder, Gary Martin, has tracked down an example of the expression from 1855 in The Protestant Episcopal Quarterly Review and Church Register about someone being ‘wild and woolly haired.’ So, the ‘woolly’ part might not be about sheepskin after all. According to one website the phrase became popular and widespread after it appeared in a book title in 1891: Tales of the Wild and Woolly West by Adair Welcker. They go on to say that a publisher’s note claimed that ‘wild and woolly’ did indeed refer to sheepskin coats (and parts of the Old West could be very cold in winter). But famous newspaper columnist Franklin P. Adams said the full expression was originally ‘wild and woolly and full of flies.’ In 1902 a famous novel appeared called The Virginian by Owen Wister which used a version of that: ‘will and woolly and full of fleas.’ The Virginian was first made into a movie in 1929 starring a young Gary Cooper. It was re-made in 1946 with Joel McCrea in the title role. Then it became a TV series (1962 to 1971) with James Dury as the Virginian of the title. Anyway, back to the phrase we’re looking at. The longer version, ‘wild and woolly and full of fleas’ was used in the 1934 cowboy song ‘Pecos Bill and the Wild Coyote’ (recorded by Roy Rogers) which included the line: ‘I’m wild and woolly and full of fleas, ain’t never been curried below my knees.’ So, what can we conclude at the end of this? Well, we are certain it’s from the cowboys of the American wild west—but that’s about it. Was it originally about sheepskin coats of woolly hair? Can’t be sure. It could have been either… or even both!
Commissar Australia has appointed Julie Inman Grant as the first eSafety Commissioner. I am suggesting that her title should be changed to eSafety Commissar—because she is behaving like Communist-era-style Commissar. Don’t misunderstand me. I am not suggesting that Julie Inman Grant is a communist. I’m sure she’s not. But I am saying that this office, with these powers, has been established as a Communist-like Commissar. The word ‘Commissar’ came into English from the post-classical Latin word meaning someone delegated to exercise power. It first turned up in English in 1918 when the Russian communists started using this word for a member of an executive committee of senior government officials formed after the October Revolution of 1917, known as the Council of People’s Commissars. And also, for the head of any government department in the Soviet Union or any of its constituent republics. Anyone who exercises “communist like” powers should be called a ‘Commissar.’ And that’s the power that has been given to this office of the eSafety Commissioner, who seems to have more power than the police. Stop and think about it. The police cannot search your home without going to court and persuading a magistrate they have sufficient evidence and reason to do so. They can only act when they are issued with a search warrant by a magistrate. This eSafety Commissar doesn’t need to do anything of the sort. This unelected bureaucrat who is unanswerable to the Australian people also seems to be unanswerable to the courts. Or, at least, certainly far less answerable than the police. This Commissar can simply sit at a desk and issue an order about what you are allowed, or not allowed, to see on social media—and impose massive fines on anybody this all-powerful Commissar chooses to attack. This should be under the rule of law. The Commissar should be required to appear in court and persuade a magistrate to issue the order she wants issued. If she can’t produce the evidence and the arguments her application should be denied. If she had been required to do in that in the case currently filling the news, she would have been denied on the grounds of inconsistency—other highly provocative encouragements to violence are allowed, but an attack allegedly inspired by Islamist extremism must be suppressed! Clearly there is some other agenda working here (a desire to hide the violence nature of Islamist extremism? I don’t know). But the real worry is that we are now under the control of a Communist-era-style Commissar. And once the government starts appointing Commissars we’re all in trouble. They are coming social media today—they’ll be coming for you tomorrow!
Autism A reader (Charlotte) has written to say: ‘I’ve heard about a growing childhood diagnosis of autism—but where does the word come from?’ She is right, that there has been an explosion in the diagnosis of autism in children in Australia. Why that should be so is unclear. It may be that there has been a huge amount of autism that has gone unnoticed and undiagnosed for many years—and the medical profession is finally catching up. Or it may be that medicine (just like every other area of life) is the subject of trends and fads—and autism is the latest of these. Or even that the benefits now available under the NDIS attract such diagnoses. Whatever. I have no way of knowing where the truth lies in this, but I can look at the word. ‘Autism’ is what is called a ‘neurodevelopmental condition’ that makes people unable to communicate properly, or to form relationships. I am no expect but I am told that people who have autism cannot ‘read’ people around them—fail to understand how things look to others, and, hence, how to respond to them. Mind you, there can be much more to it than that. The term ‘autism’ first was used by German psychiatrist Eugen Bleuler in 1908. He used it to describe a man who had withdrawn into his own world. The Greek word autos means ‘self’ and the word ‘autism’ was used by Bleuler to mean withdrawal within the self. At one end of the spectrum people are just insensitive and social abrupt (aware of themselves but not others)—at the other end of the spectrum there are children who are totally non-verbal. At the lower end of the scale autism used to be called ‘Asperger’s Syndrome’ from Hans Asperger (1906–80), an Austrian psychiatrist, who described the condition in 1944. If you ever watched Doc Martin on TV you will be familiar with the character Dr Martin Ellingham played by Martin Clunes. That character was portrayed as a classic example of Asperger’s Syndrome—the lowest end of the autism spectrum. But the other end of the spectrum is very different. I once worked with a colleague in radio who had a son with autism—and he explained that many people with autism are non-verbal (they never talk, or cannot talk) and that their grasp of simple everyday tasks can be limited. So, very sad for families. And a word with a very broad meaning.
Empleomania It’s weird word time once again. This is one you may never find a chance to use anywhere—it’s just fun, that’s all! There are, as we know, a whole lot of different manias—each with its own name. From ‘egomania’ to ‘megalomania’ they get trotted out from time to time. But not this one. That’s because ‘empleomania’ is a mania for holding public office. And most of us can’t quite understand that sort of mania. I suppose it must seize a lot of people a lot of the time—there is an endless parade of people who want to run for local council, or pre-selection for a parliamentary election, or who just lobby people in power to appoint them to this or that. What drives them? I suppose if you asked they’d all reply: ‘I want to serve the community.’ Yes. Of course. Why didn’t I think of that? It’s just a matter of community service. It has nothing to do with being in a prominent position (with all its lurks and perks). And it has nothing to do with well paid public offices. Never! How could you even think such a thing? Shame on you. The word ‘empleomania’ came into English around 1845 from a Spanish source word (English borrows—or steals! —words from every language on earth). It’s interesting that the Spanish first noticed this mania for public employment—perhaps Spaniards have it worse than the rest of us. And there is (I suspect) a problem these days with the ‘professional politician’—the university student who joins the committee of their local ‘Young Labor’ or ‘Young Liberal’ bunch, uses this to make contacts, and on graduation becomes a staff member to a politician (or in the case of Labor, a union official). When they’ve made a lot of contacts (and have networked all over the place) they seek pre-selection. Once in parliament they play the same games in the party room to get a ministerial position. And all the time they’ve had almost no contact with the world of ordinary work—or generating the wealth that actually keeps the place going. Perhaps they are the real offenders when it comes to ‘empleomania.’ The days of prime ministers being former train drivers seem to be long gone.
Declutter In the current edition of The Weekend Australian is an excellent column by Janete Albrechtsen called ‘Beauty of brevity and the pursuit of the perfect word (you’ll find it on page 16 of the paper). Every wordie should read it. You’ll find yourself punching the air in triumphal agreement, and grinning in delight. In other words, I think this is a good piece. It resonates with me because I have written about two-thirds of my next book called How to Write Clear English. It’s been a part time project for two years now, and I’m not sure I’ll ever get it finished. But the goal of my little book is exactly what Janet writes about in her column. It's an attempt to be a handy guide to clarity in everything we write. The problem is not that we don’t say enough, but that we say far too much. In my book I quote the famous line from George Bernard Shaw (which comes at the end of one of his long, rambling letters): ‘I would have written you a shorter letter, but I didn’t have the time.’ It is easy to write too long. In an email or even a text, the words can just come tumbling out. Mostly, short writing is clear writing. Mostly short sentences are clearer than long ones. But is that what we do? No! We waffle. So, the art of clear writing is the art of decluttering. That word first appeared in print (as far we can discover) in 1941. Then the verb ‘to declutter’ turned up in 1950, and from the year 2000 ‘declutter’ began to appear as a noun. This is word family that doesn’t need to be explained. Decluttering a sentence means taking out unnecessary words. These are often adverbs and adjectives. Often you can leave nouns and verbs to stand alone and do their job. Decluttering can also mean taking out those extra bits (those qualifications) you’ve stuck in the middle of the sentence to explain something. Take them out and make them separate, subsequent sentences. It’s all in my book (if it’s ever finished, and is ever published!) Until it is, here is a simple idea, that I call the ‘don’t hit send’ idea. It is so quick and easy to hit the ‘send’ button we do it without thinking. Without checking. Without decluttering. (Do I always follow that rule? No. But it’s still a great rule!) Don’t hit send UNTIL— (1) you’ve carefully and slowly re-read what you’ve written, (2) you’ve taken out any unnecessary words, (3) you’ve fixed any clumsy bits, and (4) you’ve run it through the spell checker. Next time you write anything, remember Kel’s DON’T HIT SEND rule, and you’ll do better. (And I’ll try to get back to finishing that little book on How to Write Clear English.)
Pretzel Yesterday (April 26) was National Pretzel Day in America. Yes, they do have a day for everything, don’t they? Surely, National Pretzel Day would be like Australia holding an annual Vegemite Sandwich Day! (Maybe, we should?) Anyway, if you have ever walked the streets of Manhattan you’ll know that you encounter a stall selling pretzels about every block (or perhaps two or three of them in every block). These, of course, are not those crispy little nibbles that come in a packet, and that you serve with drinks. These are real pretzels—twists of long, thin, bread, often woven into a knot shape. According to History.com pretzels date back to the 7th century and there’s some conjecture the snack made it to America via the Mayflower. Perhaps. What is known for sure is that German immigrants brought pretzels to Pennsylvania about 1710. I always thought of pretzels as having that baked on salty taste. But in America, there appears to be a range to choose from—including cinnamon and sugar pretzels, soft pretzels, jumbo pretzels, and Bavarian pretzels (whatever they are). They are also small things called ‘pretzel bites’; and those soft pretzels are sometimes served with a white cheddar cheese sauce. There’s also something called Nashville Hot Pretzel Pieces—and again we can only guess at what they might be. As for the word ‘pretzel’ is turns up in English, from a German source word somewhere between 1824 and 1838 (the experts are not certain). The word has been around in various forms for centuries. The German source word seems to be Bretzel which meant a kind of bread roll, made from a thin length of dough twisted into a knot and coated with brine before baking. It may (possibly, the experts are not certain) come from an even older source word that mean a loaf made in the shape of a braid. Here’s my question: are genuine, New York-style bread loaf pretzels available here in Australia? Specifically, here in Sydney (where I might lay my hands on them)? Any information is welcome.
Words matter The title of my weekly segment with Peta Credlin on Sky News is ‘Words Matter.’ That title was coined by Peta, and it’s a sentiment I heartily endorse. I have just found a wonderful explanation of why that is so. It comes from British novelist and poet John Wain in his brilliant biography of Samuel Johnson. You may remember that Johnson spent nine years singled handedly compiling the first really serious dictionary of the English language. He used the services of half a dozen copyists to write out the quotations he had found, but all the research, and the brilliantly written definitions, were his alone. His book was not the very first English dictionary, but it was the first that mattered. It came out in 1755—with his famous preface about dictionary making in the front. That preface alone is worth reading—a superb piece of English prose, that still says important things. John Wain explains that it is:
‘…an account of the way he understands language and its functions; and as such it is the utterance of not only one man but of a society that pinned its faith on language, on verbal and written utterance, as we pin ours on technology. To Johnson, as to his age, language was the essential instrument of thought. In this view, sloppy and imprecise use of words, a habit of shovelling them about contemptuously as if they were so much gravel instead of a collection of living entities each with its history and personality, can produce only half-baked thinking which blurs distinctions and fails to get to the heart of anything. (Some of us still hold the same belief, even now, though most of the ‘thinkers’ in vogue in our society—sociologists e.g.—seem to have either abandoned the belief in clear and precise language or never heard of it.) Johnson believes that a language… is the fullest and best expression of the selfhood of any civilisation…’
That is, itself, a great piece of writing by John Wain. And it neatly sums up what those of us who care about language believe. Words matter!
Anzac Did you realise that the word Anzac is copyright? Originally, of course, it simply meant the “Australian and New Zealand Army Corps”. But so deeply has this word entered into the consciousness of our nation that there are laws, passed way back in 1920, that control and protect its use. The Minister for Veterans’ Affairs administers the protection of the word Anzac, and the minister’s approval is needed for the use of the word in connection with any “trade, business, calling or profession, any entertainment, lottery or art union, any building, private residence, boat or vehicle, or any charitable or other institution”. Even Anzac biscuits are protected by law. Well, not so much the biscuits as the name of the biscuits. And, by the way, Anzac is no longer an acronym – it is now officially a word: that means the “A” is upper case and the rest of the letters should be lower case. April 25thevery year Australia stops to celebrate Anzac Day. It marks the anniversary of the first major military action fought by Australian and New Zealand forces during the First World War. The diggers landed at Gallipoli on April 25, 1915, meeting fierce resistance from the Turkish defenders. They were evacuated at the end of that year after eight months of stalemate, fierce fighting, and appalling loses. Over 8,000 Australian soldiers were killed. The legend of Anzac was born on the beaches of Gallipoli. April 25th was officially named Anzac Day in 1916 as an occasion of national commemoration. Every year on this date commemorative services are held at dawn – the time of the original landing. Later in the morning, across the nation, Anzac Day marches are held in every major city and many smaller centres. Anzac biscuits are biscuits made out of oatmeal, golden syrup and coconut; one of Australia’s national foods. During World War I the wives, girlfriends and mums of the Australian soldiers used to make these biscuits to ship over to their blokes. They were originally called Soldiers’ Biscuits, but after the landing on Gallipoli, they were given their present name. In the recipe for Anzac biscuits from the Australian War Memorial there are no eggs. Why? Because apparently in the war, most poultry farmers had joined up, so eggs were scarce. Golden syrup took the place of eggs as the binding agent in Anzac biscuits.
Nice I often make the point the English is a river not a lake, it is constantly flowing and changing. How much our language has changed becomes clear when we look at a word and discover that it once meant something totally different from what it means now. And this word ‘nice’ is one of those. These days ‘nice’ means ‘pleasant, attractive, or enjoyable’ (Longman Dictionary of Contemporary English). When we apply it to people we probably mean that they are friendly, kind or polite. But history tells a different story: ‘nice’ originally meant ‘foolish, silly, simple; ignorant.’ Eh? That seems so strange! How could the word ever have meant that? This word ‘nice’ first appeared into English around 1300 as an Anglo-Norman word, which meant it came from a French source word. Back in those days ‘nice’ could also mean an action that displayed ‘foolishness or silliness.’ All these meanings seem to peter out around the 1600s, and are labelled as ‘obsolete’ today. Because the word didn’t stand still—it kept developing different meanings over time. For example, people started applying it to the way folk dressed—particularly if they dressed in a showy or extravagant fashion (perhaps they though dressing like that was foolish?) Once ‘nice’ was being applied to clothes it morphed again and came to mean ‘finely dressed’ or ‘elegant.’ (You can see it is starting to move in our modern direction.) And once it meant elegant dress people started using ‘nice’ to mean elegant manners or conduct. But not always in a good way. There was a time when ‘nice’ meant that your conduct was far too fussy and punctilious. But then this slightly unfavourable meaning switched from being bad to good—and ‘niceness’ was something associated with polite society. Before you know it ‘nice’ is being used to mean ‘tact, care, or discrimination.’ From there it was only a short step to ‘nice’ coming to mean ‘agreeable, pleasant’ and its long journey through the English language was almost up to where we stand today. So, this particularly linguistic river has been a slow moving, meandering one, bumping into first one headland and then another. Which is why trying to map our language can sometimes feel like trying to map the waves at sea!
Save Bonza Opposition Transport Spokeswoman Bridget McKenzie has called on the Albanese government to do everything it can to save budget airline Bonza—following concerns over its future. Bonza’s US owners have called in a heavyweight advisory team to run the ruler over the finances of the airline, which runs cheap flights between Australian holiday destinations. All of which sounds like a good idea to me. But what really attracted my attention was the headline above the news story reporting this: “Save Bonza.” And that gave me an idea—perhaps you and I should “save bonza” in a different sense—in the sense of saving the wonderful old Aussie word ‘bonza.’ It is rarely heard these days, and it would be sad if we allowed such a classic example our Australian language to die. But can we save it? Well, first a bit of background. As you know ‘bonza’ is (or was) a general term of approval. If anything was pretty good, you could say, “Hey, that’s bonza mate!” As for its origin: its starting point (“perhaps” says the Australian National Dictionary) is the French word for “good”, bon. By the late 19th century, his was made more emphatic by being turned into the colloquial word “bonster”. And this, in turn, developed into the rather easier-to-say ‘bonza’ – perhaps influenced by the Mexican-American word “bonanza”. Sue Butler says that until World War Two ‘bonza’ was a powerful word in Aussie English, but after that we were internationalised. Michael Quinion (on his Worldwide Words website) has described ‘bonzer’ as “an archetypal Australianism, typical of the lively and expressive slang of that country.” So, I hope we’re not losing this rather beaut Aussie word! In 1928 distinguished Australian essayist Sir Walter Murdoch was asked to judge 300 odes submitted in an “Ode to Western Australia” competition (to mark the centenary of that state). In a later essay Murdoch complained that the vast majority of the competing entries began with “hail” or “all hail” and then threw in an extra “hail” when their feelings got the better of them. After slogging patiently through 300 of these things he wrote his own, which begins: “Hail beauteous land! / Hail bonza West Australia; / Compared with you, / All others are a failure.” This probably makes it the only ode in the world to contain the word ‘bonza’. (See what the rest of them are missing out on!) But—how can we save ‘bonza’ from dying out? There is only one way—to use it! If you would like to join this campaign all you need to do is to stop and think—every time you want to say something is good, think again and say it is ‘bonza’. If we use it, it will live. What do you think? Are you prepared to sign up to our ‘Save Bonza’ campaign?
Three-card trick The Albanese government this week announced a new defence spending policy. The brilliant Greg Sheridan wrote in The Australian: ‘Defence Minister Richard Marles is like an aging carnival magician—he keeps performing the same four-card trick, hoping the audience never gets wise to this old-fashioned and obvious trickery.’ What Greg had to say was brilliant, and a perfectly correct analysis of the deception being played on the Australian public. Except (you knew there was an ‘except’, didn’t you?) except that he gave the ’aging carnival magician’ one too many cards. What he was referring to is commonly called the ‘three card trick.’ Here’s how the Oxford English Dictionary explains it: “three-card trick noun a trick popular with race-course sharpers, also known as find the lady, in which a queen and two other cards are spread out face downwards, and bystanders invited to bet which is the queen.” As well as ‘three-card trick’ and ‘find the lady’ this confidence trick is recorded as ‘three card monte’ and according to some accounts dates back to the late Middle Ages. The problem with this theory is that the name is recorded only from 1854. In the ‘three-card trick’ the target (or ‘mark’) is shown three cards with the queen of hearts in the middle. He is invited to place a bet that he can pick which card is the queen after they’ve been shuffled. If he succeeds he gets back his bet, doubled. But if he fails to pick the queen he loses his money. Of course, the mark never wins (or, perhaps, is allowed to win once, and then encouraged to double his bet to do it again, when, of course, he loses). The operator is employing sleight-of-hand and misdirection to deceive the punter. Often the operator will hold up three cards showing the queen in one hand and the other two cards in the other hand. He then puts the cards down, having first flipped them around unseen. So, from the beginning the mark is trying to follow the wrong card with his eyes. The operator says ‘Watch very closely, the hand is faster than the eye’ at a time when the poor mark is trying to follow the wrong card. But, it is only three cards, not four!
Different trial, more words The Lehrman-Higgins defamation trial is over, so the courtroom to focus on now is in New York, where, for the first time ever an ex-President is facing a criminal trial. A jury of 12 people has been seated for former President Donald Trump’s so-called ‘hush money’ trial in New York, following a challenging selection process. Lawyers for the defence and the prosecution have also selected six alternate jurors for the trial. The jury includes a sales professional, a software engineer, an English teacher and multiple lawyers. This process of selecting (and challenging) potential jurors is called ‘voir dire.’ The Merriam-Webster Third International Unabridged defines ‘voir dire’ as: ‘a preliminary examination to determine the competency of a witness or juror,” especially the act or process of questioning prospective jurors to determine which are qualified (as by freedom from bias) and suited for service on a jury.’ The Oxford English Dictionary says ‘voir dire’ came into English in 1676 and originally meant: ‘an investigation into the truth or admissibility of evidence, held during a trial’ until it took on the special meaning that it has today. It comes from Old French— ‘voir’ meaning ‘truth’ and ‘dire’ meaning ‘to say’ (so, ‘to say the truth’). The other word used in this trial that has cause a spike in look-ups at the Merriam-Webster is: ‘admonish.’ On the 17th of this month CNN reported that Judge Juan ‘sternly admonished’ Trump for ‘his conduct towards the first juror about her social media.’ The Oxford says ‘admonish’ first turned up in English around 1325. Behind it is a classical Latin word admonēre meaning ‘to remind, to put in mind of, to advise, to urge, to warn, to inform, to rebuke.’ These days to ‘admonish’ someone is to tell them ‘severely that they have done something wrong’ (Longman Dictionary of Contemporary English) but originally (back in the 14th century) it meant ‘To exhort or urge (a person) to do something, esp. as a duty or obligation; to tell or warn (a person) that he or she should do something’—which is not a big shift in meaning over the intervening 700 years. (I think it’s now time to leave courtrooms behind and get back to more everyday language!)
Judge’s words Yesterday I commented on a word (‘omnishambles’) used by Mr Justice Michael Lee his judgement in the Bruce Lehrman defamation matter. Today, some other words used in his judgement that readers have asked about. First, one reader asked about ‘libation.’ When the young couple at the centre of this, drank together Judge Lee referred to their ‘libations.’ The word is recorded in English from as long ago 1382. Nowadays ‘libation’ is just a fancy way of saying ‘alcoholic drinks.’ Someone who was being whimsical could invite you for ‘after work libations.’ Behind the English word is a Latin source word lībāre meaning ‘an offering of wine to the ancient pagan gods.’ Then I was asked about the word ‘badinage’—used by the judge to refer to the conversation between Lehrman and Higgins. ‘Badinage’ means (as the judge implied) small talk, light conversation. The Longman Dictionary of Contemporary English defines it as ‘conversation that involves a lot of jokes or humour.’ The Oxford calls it ‘trifling discourse’ and reminds us that the correct pronunciation is BAD-uh-nahzh (the last syllable should be pronounced the same as the last syllable in ‘garage’). This turns up in English from 1658, and came into our language from a French source word (it’s related to the more familiar word ‘banter’). Finally, there’s the word ‘brume.’ This is one I hadn’t come across before, so I had to go away and look it up (I do this, so you don’t have to!) Judge Lee had talked about a ‘brume of confusion.’ ‘Brume’ is another one that came in English from French, in this case from what is called Middle French back around 1500. These days it means: ‘fog, mist or vapour.’ Which makes perfect sense in Judge Lee’s context—he talked about a ‘fog of confusion.’ Mind you, when the word was first borrowed (or stolen!) from French it just meant ‘the middle of winter.’ And, of course, the judge’s best-chosen words have been quoted often: ‘Mr Lehrman escaped from the lion’s den, and then made the mistake of coming back for his hat!’ Implying, I think, that Bruce Lehrman was unwise to have ever started the whole defamation matter.
Omnishambles This is a word I discussed with Peta Credlin on the ‘Words Matter’ segment of her show on Sky News last Wednesday. Before that I discussed it briefly on the Q and A page in response to a question from a reader (Jay from Wembley in
WA). It is one of the distinctive (and uncommon) words used by Judge Michael Lee in his defamation judgement in the Bruce Lehrman matter. The background to ‘omnishambles’ is this. The word means: ‘a situation that has been comprehensively mismanaged.’ The Oxford English Dictionary says it is a very new coinage, dating only from 2009. They say the earliest recorded appearance of ‘omnishambles’ is in a BBC satirical series called The Thick of It. But there’s a bit more that can be said. The Thick of It has been described as the Yes Minister show for the 2000s—a savage political comedy. One of the characters in that show (called Malcolm Tucker in the show) was supposedly based on Alastair Cambell—Prime Minister Tony Blair’s media manager and general, all-round enforcer. He had a reputation for berating back-benchers (and even ministers) in the strongest possible language—and what could be stronger than to accuse them of ‘comprehensively mismanaging a situation’ of creating an ‘omnishambles? So, I am proposing that this word was coined by Alastair Campbell when Tony Blair was British Prime Minister—between 1997 and 2007. Quite possibly quite early in the Blair years—which would make it in the late 1990s. This dating stuff matters to lexicographers. At the moment the Oxford gives a date of 2009 for the word (which was the year it was used in The Thick of It—although the series had been running since 2005). If I am right, then we can name the coiner of ‘omnishambles’ (Alastair Campbell) and give an earlier date to its creation than heretofore. As for Judge Lee’s use of the word: was the Higgs-Lehrman soap opera an ‘omnishambles? You bet your boots it was! A final note on the word itself: ‘omni’ (from Latin) means ‘all’ while ‘shambles’ now means ‘a general mess’ and comes from a Germanic source word for the open-air butchers’ shops of the Middle Ages (and the bloody mess of those shop counters gave us the broader meaning of the word).
Non-racist We are all horrified by racism—by the abuse and denigration of people based on their race. In Australia this has been most evident recently in the attacks on people of the Jewish race. So, it’s important that we understand how the word ‘racist’ is being used in today’s society, and what we can do better. Many of our universities (both here and overseas) have been infected by a Marxist concept called Critical Race Theory—which is the theory that all racist discrimination is directed at brown and black people, and it always comes from white people. In other words, Critical Race Theory is itself racist—since it divides people up on the basis of race. How should we respond? Since 1928 the most common word for opposition to racism has been ‘anti-racism.’ But here’s the problem: Critical Race Theory falsely claims be anti-racist—so we have to find a new word. And here's my suggestion: ‘non-racist.’ This is a new word, not yet found in any dictionary (well, I’ve only just coined it!). And the best definition of ‘non-racist’ is found in the words of Rev. Martin Luther King Jr, speaking to a huge rally in Washington, D.C. on August 28, 1963. In his famous ‘I Have a Dream’ speech, he said this: ‘I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the colour of their skin but by the content of their character. I have a dream today.’ That is ‘non-racism’—that is what my new word means. It means that race is not important. It means that race does not matter. It means that we never make judgements, and never make decisions, based on race. In the case of disadvantaged Aboriginal people, we help them generously, not on the basis of their race—but on the basis of their need. In fact, we help everyone on the basis of need, not on the basis of race. Race (what Martin Luther King calls ‘the colour of their skin’) is the least important thing about anyone. What matters is the quality of their heart, their character, the quality of their mind, their soul. Race does not matter. We should have a public policy in this country of ignoring race, and treating people on the basis of their need and their ability. This has sometimes been called ‘being colour-blind’ (picking up on Martin Luther King’s expression that ‘the colour of their skin’ does not matter—but the content of their character does.). Liberal Senator James Paterson has proposed that all references to race should be removed from the Australian constitution. I think he is exactly on the money! That is 'non-racism' and that is what we need. Ignoring race is the only way for a nation to be healthy. This is the principle I call ‘non-racism.’ What do you think? Is that the way ahead?
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