Kel's previous Ozwords of the day...

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Rhubarb! Rhubarb! Actors who need to stand in the background of scene are supposed to give the impression that they speaking to one another achieve this (according to the popular legend) by muttering the word ‘rhubarb’ over and over again. This (so it is claimed) gives the impression of a muttering group of people in the background while the lead actors get on with their stuff in the foreground. Of course, they can’t produce coherent sentences because (a) the writer has not given them any real lines to speak, and (b) if they made noises that made some sense they might distract from the main action. The great Nigel Rees (the master of quotations and common utterances) thinks it unlike that ‘rhubarb’ was ever actually used for this purpose. He writes: ‘Unwise actors might they could actually get away with saying “rhubarb”, but the idea is to repeat a word, which uttered in various voices, adds together to sound like the noise a crowd makes.’ My own theory is that because of the myth (or legend) that the word ‘rhubarb’ was used in this way it was picked up and mocked (relentlessly) on the great radio show The Goon Show (Spike Milligan, Harry Secombe and Peter Sellars). When there was supposed to be crowd scene Neddy Seagoon and others would say the word ‘rhubarb’ over and over again as loudly as possible. It was very funny in The Goon Show context—and advertised the notion that ‘rhubarb’ was the word actors always used. One result is that there is now the verb ‘to rhubarb’ meaning to talk nonsense. The Oxford English Dictionary records the verb ‘to rhubarb’ from 1959—and that date pretty clearly ties it to The Goon Show. (Although the OED does say that the noun rhubarb meaning ‘a murmurous background noise’ has been around since 1919—so perhaps The Good Show popularized it, rather than invented it.) Another phrase said to be repeated by actors in this situation is ‘my fiddle, my fiddle, my fiddle.’ Meanwhile, the poor plant ‘rhubarb’ has been around in the English language since around the year 1300. I do remember that when I was a small boy my late Nan used to cook a rhubarb tart (or sometimes a mixture of rhubarb and apple) that I loved—it was delicious with custard!

Wellness I’m sure I can’t be the only person irritated by the word ‘wellness.’ It is the most fashionable of all the current fad words. It seems that everything these days has to do with ‘wellness’—scented candles, Thai massage, mind-emptying meditation, spas, vegan diets, obsessive use of the gym… just everything seems to fit into this generation’s utter obsession with ‘wellness.’ The Oxford English Dictionary traces the word ‘wellness’ back to 1654 when it started to be used as a contrast to ‘illness.’ But back then it meant nothing very special—just the case of being in good health. However, it no longer means that. It now means mud baths, having coffee enemas, and holding crystals to your forehead and who knows what other nonsense. This more modern concept of ‘wellness’ seems to go back to the United States (where else?) around 1957. It seems to have bubbled out of the brain of an American statistician named Halbert Dunn. He was a statistician for various medical clinics in the US from the 1930s to the 1960s. From all the numbers he collected he cobbled together a book called High-Level Wellness (1959). It was this book that gave the word ‘wellness’ a whole new lease of life. But why did this idea take off? Dunn himself died in 1975 long before the current epidemic of ‘wellness.’ So, I ask again, why is it now flourishing? The answer yet again is that powerful three-word-slogan ‘Follow the Money’! ‘Wellness’ is now an industry, with ‘wellness centres’ all over the globe. Nowadays ‘wellness centres’ offer an enormous range of services: detox programs, yoga, hydrotherapy, massage, forest bathing, seaweed bathhouses in in Ireland, snake massages in Indonesia and who know what else. Well, Mathew Condon seems to know, and he wrote about this industry of dubious worth in The Australian newspaper. He reported that in Tokyo you can have a facial of nightingale droppings ‘to brighten your features.’ If that doesn’t appeal to you in Thailand they offer a facial treatment consisting of snail slime. Perhaps this (sometimes eccentric) trend is part of the current generation’s desire to live forever, and never age. A nice wish, but I have to tell them it won’t work. A recent survey of doctors shows that ten out of ten people die. Still, nice try. And it may account for the current obsession with ‘wellness.’

Bible Bible sales went up sharply in the weeks after the death of Charlie Kirk, who was assassinated on September 10 in Utah. A devout Christian, faith was central to both his personal life and political identity. In September, 2.4 million Bibles were sold across the US—a 36% jump from the same month in 2024, according to book tracker Circana BookScan. It was the biggest month of Bible sales so far this year. The rise comes as print book sales overall have weakened. Kirk's wife Erika Kirk spoke at her late husband's memorial service on September 21. She said his death had kindled a spiritual renewal, saying ‘We saw people open a Bible for the first time in a decade. We saw people pray for the first time since they were children. We saw people go to a church service for the first time in their entire lives.’ Mark Schoenwald, president and chief executive of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, said Bible sales have been strong over the last two years, but that Kirk's death in particular 'awakened a lot of people'. Interest in the Bible's teachings is especially high amongst 18-to-34-year-olds—the group that Kirk engaged with the most. Kirk's death has inspired an interest in Christianity on the whole, not just Bibles. James Borrero, owner of Cornerstone Christian Bookstore in Vineland, New Jersey, told the Wall Street Journal: ‘even people like my father who never knew about him were affected by his death’' Calvary Chapel Hills Pastor Jack Hibbs of California told Fox News, ‘People are coming to us, and they are saying, “I want to know the meaning of life, the purpose. Why am I here?”’ The word ‘Bible’ came into English from French (in the 1300s)—and behind the French word is a post-classical Latin word, which, in turn, is derived from a Hellenistic Greek word: and all of those source words all have the same meaning, ‘book.’ In other words, for our ancestors the Bible was simple ‘the book.’ The Bible consists of 66 documents (themselves called, confusingly, ‘books’) and is classified into two parts: the Old Testament and the New Testament. The Old Testament documents are written mostly in Hebrew with a small amount in a related language called Aramaic. The New Testament is in koine Greek (that just means ‘common’ or ‘marketplace’ Greek). Those original source documents have been translated into English times over the years—for each new generation as the English language itself has changed. The best-selling translation these days is one called the NIV—or New International Version.

Hallowe’en Well “Hallowe’en is upon us once again” It will be celebrated (if celebrated is the right word) tomorrow night. The word itself is a contraction of “All hallows evening”—or the night before All Hallows Day—also known as All Saints Day or the Feast of All Saints in the Christian calendar. (It is ‘Hallows Even’—that being a contraction of ‘evening’—which is why it should be spelled with the inverted comma between the two Es to indicate the missing V. But of course, everyone seems to have forgotten this these days!) All Hallows Day was the day to remember all the Christians (the “saints”) of past generations. And for some reason the evening before All Hallows Day came to be associated with ghosts, and ghouls and things that go bump in the night. There was a medieval tradition that on the evening before All Hallows day vengeful ghosts wandered the earth (perhaps it was thought of as an annual holiday from Hell?) and it was marked by the wearing of costumes and the eating of “soul cakes”—which, a bit like hot cross buns at Easter, were marked by a cross (the symbol of Christian forgiveness). The modern Hallowe’en with “trick or treat” (basically demanding lollies with menaces) appears to have been invented in America, and to have arrived in Australia only in recent years—when retailers started using it as another marketing opportunity. A lot of schools have joined in the Hallowe’en obsession. My assumption is that it feels safe to do so. It is now unsafe to mark Christmas or Easter in schools (far too Christian!)—but Hallowe’en is still seen as a Christian festival it is safe to indulge in without being attacked by the Woke. Rachel Quin, of the Collins Dictionary, says that Hallowe’en is now always associated with the “gothic.” This word comes from the ancient people called the “Goths”—a Germanic people whose first invasion of Rome took place in AD 238. Their name came to be applied to a style of architecture, and of typeface, and of literature, and of a branch of modern pop music. Gothic literature is “a genre of fiction characterized by suspenseful, sensational plots involving supernatural or macabre elements and often (esp. in early use) having a medieval theme or setting” (Oxford). And there are movies (e.g. the films of Tim Burton) and TV shows (Buffy the Vampire Slayer) that could also be called “Gothic” … as can the whole of Hallowe’en every year—it is now a celebration of the Gothic style. But I remain convinced that the modern Hallowe'en is a foolish American invention that frightens small children and has no place in the Australian culture. 

6-7 We are back in the realm of youth slang—which (as you know so well) is always changing, and is always fairly obscure to those of us who are no longer ‘youths.’ This latest bit of ‘yoof talk’ is the expression ‘6-7.’ This can be written as either ‘67’ or as ‘6-7’ but is always pronounced as ‘six-seven.’ And when it is said it is accompanied by a gesture—namely holding out your two hands in front of you with palms flat and move each hand up and down a little, as if you were a set of scales weighing something. What does it mean? Well, here we venture onto difficult territory, because quite a bit of recent youth slang seems to have little or no meaning at all. The word ‘skibidi’ is an example. This seems to be a bit of slang ‘padding’ added to the language of the young with little or no meaning of its own. There is a video series called ‘Skibidi Toilet’ which might have put it into circulaton. One website claims that ‘skibidi’ is a ‘non-lexical vocable used in scat singing.’ That strange phrase means ‘a sound with no meaning.’ But the point is that there appears to be a pattern of the young inventing trendy expressions with little or no meaning. Why, I cannot imagine. (What’s the point uttering a meaningless sound? Except, I suppose, to sound trendy.) Anyway, this new one ‘6-7’ falls roughly into that category in that is it may have a bit of meaning, but is often used by the kids is a kind of meaningless grunt. If it has any meaning grunt. If it means anything at all it means ‘okay but not brilliant’ or ‘bits of it alright but not all of it’ (that’s the ‘weighing up’ gesture, you see). And where did it come from? Well, the websites I have prowled through trying to track this down now seem to agree on its origin (see what I put myself through on your behalf?) The origin appears to be an American basketball play named LaMelo Ball of the NBA team the Charlotte Hornets. Ball is popular on the basketball court because of his swagging approach to his appearances. But despite his swagger and popularity he is not one of the top players—he is a so-so-player. Hence, the ‘weighing up’ gesture used with this phrase. And he is six feet seven inches tall. So his height is the origin of the expression ‘6-7’. But the story doesn’t end there. Most kids might never have focussed on LaMelo Ball except that he was featured in a rap song by rapper Skrilla. The song is called ‘Doot Doot (6 7)’. In that song Skrilla sings ‘6-7 I just bipped right on the highway.’ All fairly pointless, except that it contributed a new bit of slang to the vocabulary of the young. And that’s quite enough about the young—tomorrow, back to real words!

Pococurante Yes, it’s Weird Word time once again—and this (I think) is just about the weirdest word I have recorded in these columns. But let’s start with the pronunciation (as an old broadcaster that’s always what I want to master first)—and the Oxford English Dictionary says we should say it like this: poh-koh-kyuh-RAN-tee (which I don’t think is all that hard; try a few times and you’ll get the hang of it). It means ‘a careless, indifferent, or nonchalant person.’ It’s first recorded in English in 1762 and it comes from the Italian expression poco curante meaning (literally) ‘caring little.’ Which in turn comes from the present participle of the Italian word for ‘care’ curare with the addition of poco meaning ‘a little.’ In 1759 the French writer Voltaire wrote Candide in which he gave his characters allegorical names. One of these is the apathetic Venetian Senator Pococurante, whose name appropriately means ‘caring little’ in Italian—because that’s what this character simply doesn’t care about anything. Then the word came into English when Lawrence Stern borrowed the expression and used it in his brilliant (if bizarre) novel Tristram Shandy—where the word is used by Tristram Shandy about his mother. So there the word was used not as a name but as a description of character. It is, as you might expect, a distinctly rare word. In the citations under the definition in the big Oxford there are only ten quotations between 1762 and 1995. Now, of course, it must have been used many more times than ten, but, still, the number of citations is guide to how common a word is (very common words have columns of citations in the Oxford). And, in fact, the Oxford tells the frequency with which today’s Weird Word appears in our language. ‘Pococurante’ occurs fewer than 0.01 times per million words in modern written English. That’s not a lot. Often with these Weird Words I issue the challenge ‘Can you find a way to work this word into your conversation some time this week? I’m less sure about the validity of such a challenge with ‘pococurante’ (even after you’ve practiced saying it a few times). I suppose if someone asks you if you care about something you could reply ‘I’m really pococurante about that’ (meaning ‘I couldn’t care less.’) That should get their attention!

Triskaidekaphobia This is a jawbreaker of a word that will be familiar to many wordies. It means ‘fear of the number 13.’ Would you like a pronunciation guide? 

Try saying the word like this: triss-kigh-deck-uh-FOH-bee-uh (does that help at all?). 

It is a badly formed word because the first part of it (triskaideka-) comes from the Greek word for 13 (in fact, it basically is the Greek word for 13 transferred to our alphabet). 

But, and it’s a big “but”, the suffix (-phobia) comes from the Latin word for ‘fear.’ No, no, no. You don’t mix Greek and Latin like that. It is verboten, it is not to be done. That said, the really interesting question is: why is the number 13 supposed to cause fear? Why is 13 said to be unlucky? What has made 13 the dark number in our list of common superstitions? The man who knew most about superstitions and folk beliefs was the remarkable Rabbi Rudolph Brasch. In his massive, one-volume encyclopaedia on the subject called The Book of Beginnings he explains that for some ancient cultures 13 was considered a lucky number—however, for most western civilisation it has been regarded as unlucky. Why is this so? There are no single definite and conclusive answers, but there are some intrigue suggestions. One comes from Norse mythology—where 12 was regarded as the most ‘fortunate’ number—largely because it could be divided in so many ways: by 3, or 4, or 2, or 6. And in Norse mythology there were 12 gods who gathered for a banquet at Valhalla. This party was gate-crashed by Loki, thus bringing the number of gods present to the unlucky 13, which supposedly led to the death of Baldur, the most beloved of gods. And sometimes the superstition about 13 is tied to historical events. The best-known example is the Last Supper—the meal that Jesus shared with his followers on the night before he arrested, tried, executed (and then rose from the dead). At that meal where the inner group called The Twelve, plus Jesus himself—making 13 in all. One, of course slipped during the course of that meal (Judas who went to betray Jesus) bringing the number back to 12—but by then (the superstition says) the damage had been done. Later, when Satanic cults arose, they always aimed to make a coven consist of 13 people: 12 ordinary witches plus their leader or ‘warlock.’ In other words, there is no certain source for this superstition. 

But if written references are any indication, the phenomenon isn’t all that old (at least, not among English speakers). Known mention of fear of thirteen in print dates back only to the late 1800s. By the early 1900s, however, it was prevalent enough to merit a name, which was formed by attaching the Greek word for “thirteen”—treiskaideka(dropping that first “e”)—to phobia(“fear of”).

Narcoterrorism The Trump government says it is now targeting ‘narcoterrorists’—by which they mean the large-scale drug smugglers funnelling huge supplies of drugs into the United States. The word ‘narcoterrorism’ is first recorded in 1982. By the way, should it have a hyphen or not? The Oxford English Dictionary says yes, and gives us ‘narco-terrorism’, while the Merriam Webster, says no and spells the word without the hyphen (as I am doing here). The two individual components of this word (hyphenated or not) are clear enough. ‘Narco’ is an abbreviation of ‘narcotics’—meaning highly addictive and deadly drugs—while ‘terrorism’ means activity which uses violence and intimidation to cause fear and terror in a civilian population (frequently through paramilitary or informal armed groups). So do these two components fit together? Should powerful, large-scale drug operations be called ‘terrorism’? It may strike some people as an unusual use of the word, but I think it works. The ‘narcoterrorists’ taken out by the Trump administration recently were bringing in boat-loads of a deadly drug called ‘fentanyl.’ This is a synthetic opiate which is a powerful analgesic, used particularly in anaesthesia. In other words, it has a proper, medical use—for pain control in a hospital, under the supervision of a doctor. But for drug addicts on the street, that is not the story. They are seeking the obliteration that will take them (momentarily) out of the horrible situation that is their life. They become addicted, and (because it is a powerful drug) thousands of them die from the use of ‘fentanyl.’ Donald Trump said that for every drug boat blown up by the coast guard or the US Airforce 25,000 American lives are saved. And we all known the consequences of widespread drug abuse—drug fuelled crime increases. The people who break into homes, or assault victims on the street, are often desperate drug addicts trying to get enough money for their next fix. On top of which the drug pedalling gangs employ standover men and professional killers to police their operation (and often bribe law enforcement authorities—corrupting those who were supposed to protect civilians). The result can be entire neighbourhoods in which the civilian population lives in fear and in terror for their own safety. I think it’s fine to call such an impact ‘terrorism’ and to label the people who are creating it ‘narcoterrorists.’ So my judgement is that this is a well-formed word.

Communism A few days ago, I explained a bunch of political words (conservatism, liberalism, socialism, and Marxism). But I should have also written about the word ‘Communism.’ The reason is that we are surrounded by a younger generation (born after the fall of the Berlin Wall) who have no idea what Communism is! (Yes, I find it staggering too!) I discovered this one night at Sky News when I was waiting to go into the studio for a panel show, when one of the other panellists (a young woman—very intelligent and very smart) turned to me and another panellist and asked: ‘What does “communism” mean?’ I am supported in this observation by Charles C. W. Cooke, Senior Editor at the American news magazine National Review (this is the great publication launched, and edited for many years, by the great William F. Buckley Jr). Cooke recently wrote in the National Review that ‘Apparently, we still need to explain why Communism is wrong.’  You and I thought this battle was over when the Berlin Wall fell and the policies of the Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher caused the collapse of the old Soviet Empire. 

What we forgot is that China is still ruled with an iron fist by the Chinese Communist Party—and that everything they do is driven by Communist thinking. And we also forgot that the younger generation has no idea how hideous Communism is, or what evil it brings into people’s lives. As the left wing of politics goes further and further left it embraces the old ideas of Communism. And the man currently running as the official Democrat Party nominee to become mayor of New York City is Zohran Mamdani—who is running on a platform of Communist ideas. Here is the official definition of Communism from the Oxford English Dictionary: ‘A theory that advocates the abolition of private ownership, all property being vested in the community, and the organization of labour for the common benefit of all members; a system of social organization in which this theory is put into practice.’ 

What this means in reality is that an all-powerful central government—run by the inner circle of the Communist Party—takes control of all property and of everyone’s lives. Personal freedom disappears. (And opponents of the Communist Party also ‘disappear’!) This is how the old Soviet Union ran, and how China still runs to this day. Communism is the most evil political doctrine every proposed (or practised!) and, somehow, we need to help the young understand what his word means.

Media cliches—part two A short while ago I introduced a list of tired old media cliches, and I invited your contributions to the list. My thanks to all who responded—far too many to report here, but in what follows I will share a few incisive insights from readers, reporting on those media cliches they find really annoying, the ones that just get under their skin. Elizabeth writes: 'My most annoying phrase is “let me be clear” so many politicians say this when they are not being clear at all.' It is, as Elizabeth points out, a pointless phrase—often uttered by a politician who has just spent ten minutes trying to explain a policy. This phrase suggests the pollie in question suddenly realises that he (or she) has failed completely and has to start again, and try this time to make things clear. They probably don’t realise that’s what they’re saying, but it is! On media cliches Helen contributes 'climate crisis' (since when has warmer weather been a crisis?) and 'lived experience' (what's the alternative? An 'unlived' experience?) And I agree with her. Climate change is a normal, natural and permanent characteristic of Planet Earth, and we should not allow a few hysterics to claim that a normal process is a ‘crisis.’ Paul agrees with me when he says he is especially annoyed by 'unacceptable, which he says really means: ' "It's not very nice but we'll let you get away with it this time" (...and the next time as well!)." Well said Paul! Bob writes that the most annoying contemporary cliché for him is “moving forward”. Yes, Bob, it is meaningless. When a politician offers a policy that is ‘moving backwards’ I might be more impressed. Peter writes: 'The cliche that annoys me most is 'tight-knit community.' Whenever a TV journalist (usually young and probably city-bred) goes to a regional town to cover a bushfire, flood, accident, crime event etc, they usually describe it as a tight-knit community. I wonder if they know what tight knitting is as compared to loose knitting?' Peter is quite correct. These journos come into a small country town where the community functions normally, and it so surprises the journo that they speak as if it were odd—what makes any community a community is being ‘tight-knit.’ Graham writes, 'I could add "unprecedented", "world-class", "game-changer" "breakthrough", and an old favourite of left-wing politicians: "let me be clear" That’s a good list—especially that irritating word ‘unprecedented’—used by journalists too lazy to look up historical precedents. And my thanks to all who contributed—you are a very smart bunch!

Political words Last night on Sky News Peta Credlin asked me for clear, working definitions of the key words in our political debates. By that she meant those words that name the sort of political worldviews people hold around Australia (and around the world): ‘conservative’, ‘liberal’, ‘socialist’, and ‘Marxist.’ For me the challenge was to say something clear and helpful—very briefly. Here are my attempts at short (but helpful) descriptions of how these words are used today (both in Australia and around the world):

Conservatism—this focusses on the preservation (the conservation) of the best traditions and institutions of earlier generations. Conservatives refuse to see themselves as the smartest people who have ever lived and so refuse to reject everything that our forebears have developed. They see themselves as one generation in a long chain of generations, responsible for the best traditions and institutions that have been handed to them by the previous generations and as being responsible to conserve the best of these for the next generation. Conservatives are not opposed to change -- rather they have a yardstick against which to test proposed changes: namely the best of the past. Changes which meet this yardstick are embraced. Conservatism is shaped largely by the thinking of Edmund Burke who saw the whole of a great European nation’s past being trashed in the French Revolution. (His book Reflections on the French Revolution was published in 1790.)

Liberalism—there's a sense in which this is the clearest one to explain, because Classical Liberalism is focussed on personal liberty (hence the name), and the protection of the individual, especially from excessively intrusive governments. This thinking is influenced largely by John Stuart Mill (from his book On Liberty, 1859) and John Locke (who's influential Two Treatises on Government appeared in 1689/90)

Socialism—this is the hardest one to nail down, because there are so many different views on what it means and how it works. But even allowing for the fact that it has a broad range of meanings, I am going suggest that (in my view) most of these centre on the notion that the society stands above the individual (hence the word ‘socialism’). In other words, this turns out (in practice) to mean that the people serve the state, rather than the state serving the people. We saw this in action during the Covic pandemic. It says the state has the responsibility (and the power) to do anything in any area of life. It is this view of government that has given us ‘climate politics’—since it encourages politicians to believe that they are responsible for the global climate, and to believe they have the power to control of the global climate.

Marxism— The word we all know comes from the name of Karl Marx (1818-1883). What is interesting is how it has changed. In the mid-20th century Marxist thinkers realised that Marxist economics impoverished people and Marxist politics enslaved people—so they switched their focus to cultural Marxism. This is based on Marx’s analysis that society consists of only two groups—the oppressors and the oppressed. This has come to dominate the universities (and much the education system) of the western world under the name of ‘Critical Theory’ (sometimes with an inserted adjective such as ‘Critical Race Theory’ or ‘Critical Feminist Theory.’) This is what has given us ‘identity politics.’

That’s my attempt at a difficult task. Is it helpful at all?

Balkanization When I was on ‘The Media Show’ on Sky News as a panellist, my fellow panellist was award-winning journalist Patrick Carlyon. During a conversation about how sometimes the media can be remarkably ineffective, Patrick talked about the ‘Balkanization’ of the media. I thought it was (and is!) a terrific word, and worth a longer look. This starts with a region called ‘the Balkans.’ This is a geographical area in southeastern Europe with various definitions. The region takes its name from the Balkan Mountains that stretch throughout the whole of Bulgaria. The borders of the Balkans are widely disputed, with no universal agreement on its components. By most definitions, the term probably encompasses Albania, Bosnia, Herzegovina, Bulgaria, Croatia, Kosovo, Montenegro, North Macedonia and Serbia. You get the picture—it’s a region broken up into lots of smallish states. But the important thing is that this name ‘the Balkans’ is used among western writers to characterize a region marked by hostile relations between numerous neighbouring states or ethnic groups and frequent episodes of political and social unrest. If any place or organization breaks up into smaller, hostile factions or groups it is often said that it has been ‘Balkanized.’ And that’s what Patrick Carlyon was getting at on ‘The Media Show’—that there are signs of ‘Balkanization’ in the media these days. When there are news conferences the journalists present should be supporting each other to get the truth out of the politician at the microphone. If one journalist asks a good question that gets fobbed off by the politician in question, then every other journalist should pick up on this and keep asking the same question until either (a) the politician reluctantly gives a proper answer, or (b) it becomes embarrassingly obvious that a devious and dishonest stunt is being performed by such evasions. But that doesn’t happen. Why not? Because, Patrick suggested, groups of journalists see each as the enemy (rather than the politician). He suggested that the former Fairfax newspapers (now the Nine newspapers) see the News Corp papers as the enemy. And I will add that often TV and radio networks such as Severn West and the Nine Network see each other as the enemy. The result, of course, is that it is the journalists who are weakened by not acting to support each other—and politicians are let off the hook. Mind you, Balkanization can happen in any institution. Is the Liberal Party being made weaker and less effective its ‘Balkanization’? You decide.

Congressional glossary If, like me, you find American politics a very entertaining show—then here’s something that will help if you find some of the language baffling. What follows comes from the C-SPAN Congressional Glossary. This is a list of Congressional words compiled by C-SPAN—the US cable channel that broadcasts the proceedings of Congress. Here in Australia only Question Time appears on television (although all the proceedings of our federal parliament are broadcast on radio). But C-SPAN seems to have cameras everywhere, and covers the lot. And included in their service is an attempt to explain the arcane world of congressional procedure. Here are a few examples.

Continuing resolution—this is bit like a budget bill in an Australian parliament. An appropriations act (typically in the form of a joint resolution) that provides stop-gap (or full-year) funds for federal agencies and programs to continue operations when the regular (or annual) appropriations acts have not been enacted by the beginning of the fiscal year.

Germaneness—no, not ‘Germanness’ but ‘ger-mane-ness’ from the word ‘germane’ meaning ‘relevant to the matter under consideration.’ According to the rules of Congress this is ‘The requirement that an amendment be closely related—in terms of the precise subject or purpose, for example—to the text it proposes to amend. House rules require amendments to be germane; Senate rules apply this restriction only in limited circumstances.’

Parliamentarian—yes, they have parliamentarians in Congress, but over there the word does not mean the elected members. Instead it means staff officials (one in each chamber, assisted by deputies and assistants) who provide expert advice and assistance to the presiding officer and to members on the application and interpretation of chamber rules.

Veto—this is the power of the president to say ‘no’ even if both houses of the Congress have approved a new law—in other words, presidential disapproval of a bill or joint resolution presented to him for enactment into law. If a president vetoes a bill, it can become law only if the House and Senate separately vote (by two-thirds) to override the veto. A less common form of presidential veto—a pocket veto—occurs if Congress has adjourned without the possibility of returning and the president does not sign the measure within the required 10-day (excluding Sundays) period. (The veto is something that is completely foreign to our Westminster system, must be signed into law by the Head of State, the Governor General.)

Cats and dogs—This is not really the official language of Congress; it’s more like the slang of Congress. It means leftover ‘stray’ bills on minor subjects saved for days with light floor schedules. Which brings us to the word—

Floor—which is used in the same way in Congress that it is used here. The ‘Floor’ refers to the chamber where members assemble to conduct debate and vote. Members are said to be ‘on the Floor’ when they assemble, and ‘to have the Floor’ when they speak.

Worcestershire sauce I have been asked for the origin of the name—and the product—known as Worcestershire sauce. In a sense, the name is easy enough because the sauce was first made in the English county of Worcestershire and is still manufacturer by the original makers (Lea and Perrins of Midland Road, Worcester, England). As for the sauce, well the legend is that in the early 1800s a certain Lord Sandys returned home from his travels in Bengal and was eager to duplicate a recipe he had acquired. Enter John Lea and William Perrins, owners of a chemist shop. On the request of Lord Sandys, the two made up the requested sauce. However, Brian Keogh wrote a book on the subject in 1997 called The Secret Sauce. He concluded that no Lord Sandys was never governor of Bengal, or as far as any records show, was ever in India. So, what is the real story? The following seems to be the most reliable account: The label shows Worcestershire sauce is prepared ‘from the recipe of a nobleman in the county.’ The nobleman is said to be one Lord Sandys. However, many years ago, a certain Mrs. Grey, author of The Gambler's Wife and other novels, was on a visit at Ombersley Court (in Worcester), when Lady Sandys chanced to remark that she wished she could get some very good curry powder, which elicited from Mrs. Grey the comment that she had in her desk an excellent recipe, for curry powder which her uncle, Sir Charles Grey, Chief Justice of India, had brought back from the sub-continent, and given to her. Lady Sandys said that there were some clever chemists in Worcester, who perhaps might be able to make up the powder. Two chemists, Messrs. Lea and Perrins looked at the recipe, doubted if they could procure all the ingredients, but said they would do their best, and in due time forwarded a packet of the powder. Subsequently the happy thought struck someone in the business that the powder might, in solution, make a good sauce. However, the resulting product was found to be so strong that it was considered inedible, and a barrel of the stuff was exiled to the basement of Lea & Perrins' premises. Looking to make space in the storage area a few years later, the chemists decided to try it once again (possibly to see if it was as bad as they remembered), only to discover that the sauce had fermented and mellowed and was now jolly good! In 1838 the first bottles of ‘Worcestershire Sauce’ were released to the general public, and it turned out that lots of us liked it. And if you are tempted to try to boil up your own lot of the stuff, here is a list of the supposed ingredients: malt vinegar, spirit vinegar (I don’t even know what that is), molasses, sugar, salt, anchovies, tamarind extract, onions, garlic, and spices. Mind you, a bottle of the stuff is cheap enough (and still tastes great) so why would you bother? 

Rannygazoo A reader (Ross) has emailed to say that he came across the word ‘rannygazoo’ in a P G Wodehouse novel. He says he’s looked up the word in the dictionary, without success. To make things slightly harder, he adds, he can’t remember the context in which Wodehouse used the word. And then concludes plaintively: ‘can you please throw some light on the word “rannygazoo”?’ Well, as it happens, I can—in part because I too am a fan of P G Wodehouse. The word is American in origin, and is first recorded from 1879. When it first bobbed up it was used to mean ‘Uproarious, wild; foolish, nonsensical; (also) deceptive, exaggerated’ (Oxford English Dictionary). But over time the meaning changed, and it developed into a way of saying that something was ‘a deception, an exaggeration, a prank, a trick.’ (I suppose the shift from ‘nonsense’ to ‘prank’ is not that big a leap—and is the sort of thing that can happen to words in ordinary conversation.) In America the word ‘rannygazoo’ was once used to refer to the sorts of reports found in gossip columns—described on one American word site as being the sort of newspaper story ‘which is midway between a fake and a statement of fact—something out of all proportion to any known facts.’ I suspect that there are quite a few reports by so-called ‘royal correspondents’ that have little or no connection to what is actually going on at Windsor Castle or Buckingham Palace. And the same is true of Hollywood stars. Mind you, many of the reports about Donald Trump that appear in the Trump-hating media also fit into this category of ‘rannygazoo.’ This is especially so where Trump makes a joke (he has a very sly sense of humour) and his media haters pretend to take him seriously. They are doing a ‘rannygazoo.’ As for P. G. Wodehouse I have tracked down where the Master used this colourful word. You’ll find it in his 1974 novel Aunts Aren’t Gentlemen. (One of his last comic novels, and one of his ripest—Jeeves and Bertie Wooster at their best!)

Media cliches A few years ago (not all that long ago!) in a media column he used to write for The Australian Mark Day reported on some research done by Chris Pash at the Dow-Jones-Reuters’ company Factiva. Using a bit of powerful computer software to seek out clichés Mr Pash churched through 1.4 million articles and news reports searching for the most commonly used clichés. And the result? Well, I’m sure you’ll be stunned to discover that journalists keep using the same clichés over and over again. The most commonly used catchphrase, he discovered, was ‘at the end of the day.’ This was followed by other classics such as: ‘level playing field’; ‘wealth of experience’; ‘unsung heroes’; ‘rushed to the scene’; ‘concerned residents’; and ‘freak accident’. My advice on clichés is entirely predictable: avoid them like the plague and don’t touch them with a barge pole! (And it’s time to stand some of these clichés on their head: I’m still waiting for a CD entitled ‘Sung Heroes’!) I’m sure that you can think of many other tiresome cliches and buzzwords that you wish our politicians, and our journalists, would put out to pasture and never use again. How about ‘the bottom line’? This is favourite of Treasurer, Jim Chalmers. He often introduces his conclusion to an argument by saying, ‘but the bottom line is…’ For Prime Minister Anthony Albanese the most over used word must, surely, be ‘important.’ Except that he doesn’t pronounce it ‘important’—instead he says ‘imporDant’ turning the medial T into D. The one that bothers me the most, because it is so feeble, is ‘unacceptable.’ Someone uses appallingly hateful or violent language and the most our politicians can do is to click their tongues and say ‘such behaviour is unacceptable.’ Which is like slapping the offender with a wet lettuce leap. At the peak of anti-Semitic, Jew-hating demonstrations in Australia all our leaders would tell us was that it is ‘unacceptable.’ Sometimes they’d try to make is stronger by saying ‘completely unacceptable.’ No it’s not! It’s hateful. It’s ugly. It’s vile. It’s wicked. It should be a criminal offence. But none of our leaders seemed to have a sufficient sense of moral outrage to say so. One of my regular readers is upset by the overuse of the word ‘Well…’ He is compiling a list of those irritating interviewees who start every answer with the word ‘Well…’ What about you? What are the media cliches that most irritate you? Let me know through the contact page and I will post them on this website.

Google Dennis asks how a popular search engine came to be called ‘Google.’ A good question, given that this is probably the most common search engine in the world. Google began in January 1996 as a research project by Larry Page and Sergey Brin while they were PhD students at Stanford University in California. Eventually, they settled on the word Google as the name of their search engine—and this was a misspelling of the mathematical word ‘googol.’ So where did that source word come from? Usually we can’t attach a person’s name to a word and say this person invented this word. But sometimes we can. And in the case of ‘googol’ we can. This was invented by a ten-year-old boy named Milton Sirotta. Furthermore we can say that Milton just made it up in his head: it wasn’t a word made out of bits of other words, put together for good linguistic reasons. The situation was this. In the 1930s American mathematician Edward Kasner had used up million and billion and trillion, and, perhaps, even zillion, and needed a name for a much bigger number—namely, a one followed by one hundred zeros. So, he asked his ten-year-old nephew Milton to think of a name for a number that, written down, would stretch all the way from here to the back fence. Young Melton said ‘googol’ and ‘googol’ it has been ever since. And, as if all those zeros weren’t enough, there’s also a ‘googolplex’—that’s ten raised to the power of a ‘googol.’ That is the word that became ‘Google.’ And now it’s producing spinoff words such as ‘Goggle washing.’ This is a response to the uncontrolled vitriolic defamation that turns up in the anarchic word of the web. If someone decides to attack you, or your business, on the web all it takes is a few vicious keystrokes. It might be a disgruntled former partner, an unhappy customer, or a competitor engaged in industrial sabotage, but it’s there—and there it will remain. Dr Ahmed Gomaa of Rutgers University says that swapping smear for smear will never work. He suggests using social networking sites to paste positive stuff about you or your business. Embedding the right keywords can make your positive message the dominant message. That’s what’s called ‘Google washing’—burying the bad news before it buries you. Then there’s the question of whether ‘Google’ can be incorporated into other expressions. The Chicago Tribune ran an article about those who check out potential dates and mates online. This is sometimes called ‘Google dating’ or ‘interpersonal espionage.’ The article was headlined: ‘Googling Before Canoodling.’ However, the Google people turned out to be most unhappy about its name being used in this way. According to the Wordspy website Google’s lawyers rushed off to court, muttering: ‘Our brand is very important to us… we want to make sure that when people use the word Google they’re referring to our company’s services… not to internet searching in general.’ It’s that old dilemma for a company: when you dominate a field your name becomes a generic word—the brand recognition is great, but you lose control of your brand name. So, it’s a tossup—what do you want? The recognition? Or the control?