Kel's previous Ozwords of the day...

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Aurora Australis About a week or so ago the ‘aurora australis’—or so-called ‘southern lights’—were visible at night in New South Wales (and, I think, as far north as Queensland). The ‘northern lights’ or ‘aurora borealis’ were named first—in 1703. Then when sailors discovered the same phenomenon in the southern hemisphere the astronomers created this southern version of the name for this related appearance in the sky (that was in 1737). The word ‘aurora’ refers to a luminous phenomenon that consists of streamers or arches of light appearing in the upper atmosphere of a planet’s magnetic polar regions; the phenomenon is caused by the emission of light from atoms excited by electrons accelerated along the planet’s magnetic field lines. Usually both versions of this swath of colour that swims across the night sky can only be seen much closer to the poles. But, for whatever reason, just recently both have been visible much further. In the case of the ‘aurora borealis’ these lights have been seen as far south as Florida (that’s a long way from the North Pole where they originate). By the way, ‘aurora borealis’ comes from what is called New Latin and means (literally) ‘northern dawn.’ And as I said, our own ‘aurora australis’ strayed so far from the South Pole as to be visible in bits of southern Queensland. The only explanation the astronomers have offered us lay people is something about a ‘geomagnetic storm.’ If your curiosity has been peaked, and you’d like to know more—ask an astronomer (not a word wizard). By the way—this expression has been borrowed at least once that I know of. When the first direct rail link between Sydney and Melbourne was opened in 1962 the first passenger train to run on the line was called the ‘Southern Aurora’ which, in typical Aussie fashion, ended up being called the ‘Southern Roarer.’ These days it is rather more prosaically called the ’XPT passenger service.’ (And Col Joye’s backing group The Joys Boys had an instrument hit called ‘Southern Roarer’ in 1962—that’s what we’re here for… all these trivial bits of information that you didn’t need to know!)

Short shrift To give someone ‘short shrift’ means ‘to make short work of; to dismiss rapidly and unsympathetically’ (Oxford). The Collins Dictionary says that if someone is given ‘short shrift’ it means that very little attention is paid to them, while the Cambridge Dictionary says it means that they are treated without sympathy. The big American dictionary, the Merriam-Webster says that ‘short shrift’ means ‘summary treatment: little consideration.’ All of which, I suppose, are pointing in pretty much the same direction. But where does this come from? And what is a ‘shrift’? Well, we have to go back into history to find the answer. More than a thousand years ago, in the days of Old English, ‘shrift’ meant a penance imposed by a priest following confession. It might originally have meant a ‘prescribed penalty (or penance)’ in the sense of something that is written down—perhaps influenced by the structural similarity between ‘shrift’ and ‘script’ (meaning ‘written down’). And that’s where our phrase ‘short shrift’ started. ‘Short shrift’ is recorded from 1597 when it originally meant ‘a brief space of time allowed for a criminal to make his or her confession before execution’ (Oxford again). And it’s not hard to see how, from that beginning, ‘short shrift’ could come to have the meaning is has to today (giving you ‘short shrift’ means giving little time and even less attention). The noun ‘shrift’ seems to come from the verb ‘to shrive.’ This came into English from an old Germanic word—and that source word had the meaning of ‘to adjudge; to impose a penalty or a penance.’ In Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales there is a character called The Pardoner who does exactly this—he ‘shrives’ people. He is a travelling friar who is licenced to sell papal pardons or indulgences. Apparently in those days it was a profitable business to offer people ‘shrift’ (short or otherwise). 

Mate In the NSW parliament yesterday afternoon Premier Chris Minns referred to another member as ‘mate.’ Then an opposition member got up and took issue with him for using the word ‘mate.’ So, is ‘mate’ now an offensive word in Australia? I am scheduled to talk to Ben Fordham on 2GB this morning at 7:45am to tackle this issue. So, you can either decide to listen, or else you’ve just missed it—depending on when you’re reading this. Of course, ‘mate’ (meaning friend) is used in Britain as well as here. In fact, it turns up in the English language around 1380—long before anyone in England had even thought about Australia. But we’ve taken this up and made it our own. The reason for this is because we (and we alone here in Australia) developed the concept of ‘mateship.’ So ‘mate’ is first recorded here from 1834, but just on twenty years later (in 1857) the word ‘mateship’ is recorded. ‘Mateship’ was invented in the bush, grew strong on the gold fields during the gold rushes, and was cemented among the Anzacs in the trenches of Gallipoli. The great John O’Grady in his little book on Aussie English says: ‘When your mate is in trouble you go to his assistance, no matter what he’s done. A man must stick by his mates.’ That’s what makes ‘mate’ a more important word here than anywhere else. So, what about the premier? As I listen to what he said, he was being friendly, informal, relaxed and entirely proper in his use of ‘mate.’ Anyone who objects that this is ‘unparliamentary language’ is a halfwit (and I may be overestimating the fraction). That said, I worry that ‘mate’ is not always used these days as it once was by the diggers. Depending on the inflection it can be an expression of disbelief: ‘maaaaaate’—which means ‘come on, that can’t be right.’ If delivered with an upward inflection (‘mate?’) it can mean ‘what do you think you’re up to.’ It even be a protest ‘Come on mate!’ But it remains a rich, colourful, and valuable word in the Aussie lexicon. At least for blokes. Sheilas are not mates. (Having said that, I should add that Jon Cleary in his 1952 novel The Sundowners portrayed a husband and wife as each other’s best mates; it was made into a movie in 1960 with Deborah Kerr and Robert Mitchum as the married couple).

WOTY voting Unlike most dictionaries around the world, our own Macquarie Dictionary has a ‘People’s Choice’ category in its Word of the Year. And voting has now opened. Below I will list all 15 nominations in this category. The list was put together by rhe lexicographers at the Macquarie and the definitions are theirs. See what you think:—

1. AI slop - low-quality content created by generative AI, often containing errors, and not requested by the user.

2. ate (and left no crumbs) - an expression used to indicate that someone has performed or executed something perfectly.

3. attention economy - an economy in which human attention is treated as a major commodity, especially in advertising.

4. Australian sushi - any of various thick, uncut sushi rolls with the nori wrapped around the filling in order to be eaten by hand.

5. BAL rating - a system of assessing a building's potential exposure to a bushfire.

6. bathroom camping - the act of isolating oneself in a bathroom for a period of time, to seek solitude, avoid work, regulate emotions.

7. bird-dogging - the act of confronting a politician publicly at a public event with direct questions or issues, aiming to bring attention to a specific issue.

8. blind box - a type of mystery box which contains an unseen collectible toy or figurine.

9. clanker - an artificial intelligence-driven robot which completes tasks that are normally performed by a human.

10. femgore - a subgenre of horror in which female protagonists are given agency over the narrative, and while still victimised, objectified or exploited to an extent, are not passive.

11. medical misogyny - entrenched prejudice against females in the context of medical treatment and knowledge, especially in the area of reproductive health.

12. Ozempic face - a condition resulting from the use of a weight loss drug, characterised by wrinkling and sagging of the face after rapid weight loss.

13. quadball - the new name for real-life quidditch.

14. Roman Empire - any of various events, interests, subjects, etc., that one finds themselves frequently thinking about, especially one considered unusual.

15. six-seven - a nonsense phrase in which each hand is held out to the side with palms facing up, alternately moving each up and down as if comparing weights. Also, 6-7.

To find out more—or to cast a vote—here’s the website to go to: Vote now for your Word of the Year! - Macquarie

Plastic The government of New South Wales has released a (so-called) ‘massive’ list of plastic items that are about to be banned. When you buy your sushi roll it will be illegal to supply you with one of those little fish-shaped bottles of soy sauce. And that small plastic triangle that holds the middle of your pizza together is also banned. Along with plastic clips on loaves of bread and tomato sauce sachets. And it will become illegal to release helium filled balloons. According to news report as many as 4,200 small plastic items are on the new banned list. This, of course, follows from the earlier banning of plastic straws, single use plastic bags and plastic cups. But I do wonder about these new bans. Clearly someone in the government has wandered around and said, ‘Let’s ban this, and let’s ban that.’ But have they ever walked into a supermarket? Almost everything in the supermarket is packed in plastic. Almost everything! Apart from tinned stuff and fresh produce the rest is all in plastic. Even stuff in carboard packets turn out to have plastic bags inside when you open the cardboard box. Any list they produce is just fiddling round the edges while supermarkets remain packed full, from floor to ceiling, with this plastic stuff! And if they tried a blanket ban on the lot the whole retailing industry would be shut down (because they rely so heavily on plastic). And the wholesalers would go out of business as well. Never mind, if banning lots of little things makes them feel better, I’m happy for them! But this is about words—so where does the word ‘plastic’ come from? This turns out to be quite interesting. First, the definition—the Collins Dictionary defines it this way: ‘plastic is a material which is produced from oil by a chemical process, and is used to make many objects.’ (See— ‘produced from oil’ that’s what makes it so evil). But the word has a long history behind it. ‘Plastic’ came into English in 1598 from an Italian source word, and somewhere behind the Italian is a classical Latin word plasticus which means ‘able to be moulded.’ There have been times during the history of the word when ‘plastic’ meant ‘sculpture’ because sculpting out of clay meant shaping or moulding the material. And that’s the core idea behind ‘plastic.’

Bee’s knees Why do we say that something that’s the best of its kind is the ‘bee’s knees’? This slang expression was born in America in the 1920s and revived in the 1970s. Attempting to explain it some people have said that when bees climb inside the cup of a flower, pollen sticks to their bodies. The bees then carefully comb this off and transfer it to pollen sacks on their back legs. The expression the bee’s knees is said to refer to the delicate way bees bend their knees when performing this operation. It’s a nice story—but like so many nice stories, it’s simply not true. The (rather plainer) truth is that popular language loves rhymes. And the ‘bee’s knees’ was simply an amusing rhyme—coined as such by American newspaper columnist and cartoonist T A Dorgan (known as “Tad” Dorgan) who lived from 1877 to 1929. His verbal inventiveness was just the ‘bee’s knees’! Michael Quinion (on his Worldwide Words website) published a list of these animal slang terms from the 1920s. Here are some of them: the elephant’s adenoids, the bullfrog’s beard, the caterpillar’s kimono, the duck’s nuts, the monkey’s eyebrows, the oyster’s earrings, the kipper’s knickers, and the eel’s ankle. And there were many others. It was a relatively short-lived frivolous slang fashion and only a few of these expressions have survived, of which ‘bee’s knees’ is the best known. Tad Dorgan, by the way, has one other claim to fame—he coined the expression ‘hot dog.’ The story is that he drew a cartoon which showed a hot dog bun, but inside the bun. instead of a saveloy, was a dachshund (one of those little German ‘sausage dogs’). But when he came to write the caption he realised he didn’t know how to spell ‘dachshund’ so he wrote ‘hot dog’ instead. At least, that’s the story!

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.

Vibe coding Yes, it’s that time of the year again—the Word of the Year time, when every dictionary comes out with their own chosen ‘Word of the Year.’ Earlier I reported that Dictionary.com had chosen as their WOTY this year ‘6-7’ (that strange piece of youth slang). Now Collins has announced that their chosen Word of the Year for 2025 is ‘vibe coding.’ As an aside, let me dispose of that old complaint that ‘this is two words not one.’ The point is that even if it’s more than none word it is a single lexical unit—those two words together mean something more than their component parts; if I said ‘vibe’ (or ‘coding’) the single word would not convey what the two words together mean. And calling two words a ‘Word’ of the year is okay, because of the range of meanings contained in the word ‘Word.’ The Oxford has a very long entry on ‘word’ and begins by defining it as a ‘statement’ (as when the boss says, ‘I’d like to have a word with you.’) Right, that’s disposed of. Now back to ‘vibe coding.’ This is defined by the Collins Dictionary as meaning ‘using AI to turn natural language into computer code.’ In other words, most of us don’t know how to write computer code—that’s what computer programmers do. So we say what we want the computer programmed to do in our ordinary English language to an AI service and AI translates our ordinary words into lines of computer code. That’s ‘vibe coding.’ The term was coined by Andrej Karpathy, former director of AI at Tesla. Alex Beecroft, managing director of Collins, said: ‘The selection of “vibe coding” as Collins’ Word of the Year perfectly captures how language is evolving alongside technology.’ Other words on the Collins short list (the ones the failed to win first prize) include: ‘biohacking’ (altering the natural processes of one’s body in an attempt to improve health and longevity); ‘clanker’ (a derogatory term for computers, robots, or sources of AI—made popular by the Star Wars movies); ‘glaze’ (to praise or flatter someone excessively or undeservedly); ‘aura farming’ (cultivating the art of looking cool); ‘HENRY’ (an acronym—high earner, not rich yet); ‘taskmasking’ (giving a false impression that one is being productive in the workplace); and ‘broligarchy’ (the powerful brotherhood of the giant tech companies). That’s quite a list, and it gives a glimpse of where the English language is going these days—whether we like it or not!

Dismissal Two days ago (on the 11th) we had the 50th anniversary of the dismissal of the Whitlam government. Once again the lefties trotted out their familiar old howls of complaint about how unfair it all was. Maybe I’m wrong, but I have always thought that those who drew up our constitution gave the Governor General those reserve powers for a reason (just in case, in remarkable circumstances) they might be needed. And were they needed? Well none of the lefties ever admit what a disaster the Whitlam government was—inflation hit 18%! We worry these days if inflation is in the 3% to 4% range. Can you imagine what it was it like with inflation at 18%? Of course, the Australian people exercised their democratic power to dismiss Whitlam at the election that followed (by a landslide). They dismissed him again in another election in 1977. Which brings me to this word ‘dismissal.’ It is clearly based on the earlier word ‘dismiss.’ This is recorded in English from 1582. It came into English from a Latin source word dīmittĕre meaning ‘to send away.’  There was an earlier verb ‘to dimit’ meaning the same thing and coming from the same Latin source word. Why ‘dimit’ changed into ‘dismiss’ is unclear (to me at least!) And from that verb ‘to dismiss’ this noun ‘dismissal’ was constructed. However, it was not the first noun constructed from that verb. Starting from 1646 ‘dismiss’ was turned into the noun ‘dismission.’ When I discovered this I was (to say the least) somewhat surprised—I had never even heard of the word ‘dismission.’ But from the mid-1600s until 1818 if someone was dismissed we didn’t talk about their ‘dismissal’ but about their ‘dismission.’ Then (in, as I say, 1818) ‘dismission’ was quietly dropped and replaced by the now familiar word ‘dismissal.’ But what if it hadn’t been? We would these days be talking about the 50th anniversary of The Dismission! And Paul Kelly’s famous book would be called The Dismission not The Dismissal. I have to admit that ‘dismission’ is not as euphonious a word as ‘dismissal’—and if this whole thing had such a clumsy word to name it, perhaps it would not be remembered quite as well as it is? Just a thought.

6-7 I dealt with this (very briefly) when Dictionary.com chose it as their Word of the Year. But here is the full explanation. 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 pro. nounced 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!

Net zero The National Party has dumped ‘net zero’ and the Liberal Party is finally struggling to decide what to do about ‘net zero.’ But what does it mean? What (in reality) is ‘net zero’? Here’s the official definition from the Oxford English Dictionary— ‘an overall balance between the amount of carbon dioxide and other greenhouse gases produced and the amount removed from the atmosphere.’ In other words, modern developed economies run on technology that produces carbon dioxide. Now, carbon dioxide (CO2) is not ‘pollution’. Carbon dioxide is a naturally occurring trace gas in the atmosphere of Planet Earth—and it is essential for the survival of life on earth. The reason for that is that we human beings (and all mammals) breath in oxygen and breath our carbon dioxide—and all plant life does the opposite by breathing in carbon dioxide and breathing out oxygen. Not pollution then, just a natural part of the life cycle and all life on earth would die without it. 

The global warming theory is that since the industrial revolution human technology has increased the amount of carbon dioxide emissions and this is causing the planet to warm. 

‘Net zero’ is the notion that we balance the amount of carbon dioxide being produced with the amount being absorbed (by trees and other plant life). There are two problems with this ‘net zero’ goal. First, it costs a lot of money. Because it requires switching from coal-fired electricity generation to very expensive ways of generating electricity—this is why your power bills are going up not down. Secondly, ‘net zero’s is impossible—it will never be achieved. Despite the Paris Accord (and before that the Kyoto Agreement) and despite countless reports from the IPCC (the UN’s climate body) and thirty years of COP meetings global carbon dioxide emissions continue to go up, not down. There is no global political will to change this. Australia cannot change it. So, ‘net zero’ is (a) expensive and (b) impossible. Chasing ‘net zero’ is like trying to draw a square circle—it cannot be done. The word 'net' is being used here in the way it is used in accounting--what is left after deductions are removed from income (it came into English from French in the `1300s). 'Zero' came into English in the 1600s from similar words in the romance languages (French, Italian, and Spanish) behind which is a post-classical Latin word meaning the 'absence of a quantity.' 

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”).

More of your questions Yesterday I shared some of the questions that people from all walks of life ask me about words and language. Here are some more of those question (and the answers):

Currency lad— Doug asked about the expression 'currency lads' that he came across in an article about the early years of Sydney town. 'Currency lad' is recorded from 1822 and referred to people born in the colony. (The expression 'currency lass' was also quickly coined.) Governor Lachlan Macquarie decided the colony needed its own currency—so he imported 40,000 Spanish dollars and had a hole cut in the middle to double the number of available coins. The 'holey dollar' was worth five shillings and the 'dump' (the bit cut out of the middle) was worth one and threepence. Locals were derided as not being of 'sterling' quality (not coming from Britain), but a just being 'local currency.' (The word 'sterling' meant English money as opposed to foreign currency.)

Snark—Jack asked: 'I have found myself wanting to use the word “snark” recently. Where does the word come from?’ It means being irritable or grumbling (the adjectival form is 'snarky'). It's recorded only from 1989. But it seems to be a variation on a much older word 'snork'—a Germanic word which the Oxford describes as being 'An imitative or expressive formation.' In other words, the very sound of the word 'snork' captures the grumbling, mumbling sound of irritable people. 

Grass and Dob—Glenn wrote "I have just finished reading the new Richard Osman novel which uses the word 'grass' in the sense of 'dob'. I am curious about the origin of the word used in this sense. Also, am I right in assuming that 'dob' is of Australian coinage?" 'Grass' is recorded from 1929. It began as rhyming slang--because 'grasshopper' rhymes with 'shopper'. So, someone who 'shopped' (sold out to the police) their criminal friends was a 'shopper' then a 'grasshopper' then just a grass. 'Dob' is Australian, from the mid-1950s. It began as a variation on 'dab', One meaning of 'dab' was to put someone one down—perhaps with a swift hit or blow. And to 'dob' on someone is certainly to put them down.

Sure as eggs—Mervyn asked where the saying "sure as   eggs" comes from? It means something that is certain. The reason it sounds baffling these days is that people have forgotten the whole proverb which began by saying "as sure as eggs is eggs." In other words, a thing is always itself. Eggs are always eggs; they don't suddenly become broccoli or roast beef! It's just pointing to an obvious truth. It's a British idiom from the late 1600s, recorded in a book called Proverbs and Epigrams by John Ray in 1668.

Rank outsider—Beverly asked for the origin of 'rank outsider.' It comes from horse racing, first recorded in 1869, to mean 'an outsider at very long odds.' It comes from the much older verb 'to rank' meaning to put things in order, in a series of lines or rows (which in turn is a military expression of French origin and more than 500 years old).

Sometimes the answers to your questions are surprising, and sometimes much more ordinary, but they are always worth know. So, keep those questions coming in, they are delightful! 

Your questions I am bombarded by questions about words and language. And that’s not a complaint! I loved to be asked questions. Sometimes I know the answer, and sometimes I have to hurry off and do some research (and I love researching the weird, wonderful world of language). I get questions from the ‘Contact’ page on this website, from Peta Credlin’s viewers, from radio listeners (and even from total strangers I bump into in shopping centres). Here is an assortment of recent questions (and the answers!): 

Dotty—Cheryl asks why we call someone who is off their rocker, ‘dotty’? Well, ‘dotty’ has had that meaning of being, shall we say, “terminally confused” since around 1860. But before that it meant anyone who walked with an unsteady gait. That earlier use seems to have come from the phrase used to describe people walking with the aid of a crutch, which was said to be a case of ‘dot and carry one’—the crutch being the ‘dot’ and the injured leg being the ‘carry one.’ How this old meaning changed to mean just plain bonkers is unclear. But perhaps there was a time when someone with an unsteady walk was thought to have an unsteady mind. 

OK— Chuck asks: ‘What is the origin of OK and do those letters O and K stand for any words? The two letters O and K stand for two phrases. The first is ‘Orl Korrect’—with ‘all’ spelled O-R-L and ‘correct’ spelled with a K. This was the sort of jokey spelling that was popular in America in the early 1800s. OK also stands for ‘Old Kinderhook’ which was the nickname of American president Martin Van Buren—whose supporters set up what they called ‘OK clubs’ across America when Van Buren ran for the presidency—intending both meanings, namely the ‘Old Kinderhook’ was ‘Orl Korrect.’ The spread of those clubs is what put the expression ‘OK’ into our language. (Van Buren’s nickname came from the fact that he was born in Kinderhook in upstate New York.)

Duffer and Drongo—Johns asked about two very Aussie words: ‘duffer’ and ‘drongo.’ 'Dongo' is easy -- it just means 'bird brain'. The 'drongo' was a bird found on Madagascar. 'Duffer' is a softer word (often applied to small children). From the late 1800s a foolish person was a 'duffer'. This seems to come from the Australian word for a cattle rustler (as they were known in the Old West) -- here they were called 'cattle duffers.' This comes from an older English word family -- 'dud' and 'dudder' meaning false -- because cattle duffers altered brands to sell their stolen cattle. 

More of your questions (and the answers!) tomorrow.

Trance music Once again we plunge into the strange world of youth culture. When we were young we listened to pop music and rock and roll. Not anymore. Now there are lots of different types of popular music—each with its own followers among the young. Those who like ‘house music’ might not like ‘rap’ and vice versa. And when I came across the name ‘trance music’ for one of these genres I was quite puzzled. That’s because the word ‘trance’ has been part of the English language since the 1300s (it comes from a French source word) with the meaning of ‘An unconscious or insensible condition; a swoon, a faint; in modern use, a state characterized by a more or less prolonged suspension of consciousness and inertness to stimulus; a cataleptic or hypnotic condition’ (Oxford English Dictionary). So is ‘trance music’ supposed to hypnotise you? Or put you into a cataleptic state? It does seem very odd name, doesn’t it? But despite this it exists and it is popular. Apple Music has a list of ‘Trance Top 100’, while YouTube has ’50 Best Trance Hits Ever.’ So, what exactly is ‘trance music’? Well, this is how one website describes it (see if this makes any sense to you): ‘Trance music emerged from the rave culture of the late 1980s and solidified its identity in the early 1990s.’ Getting any clearer? No, not for me, either! That same website goes on with a more detailed explanation: ‘While it derived its roots from house and techno, trance music distinguished itself through pulsating bass patterns and euphoric builds that transported its listeners. Where house and techno maintained their focus on hypnotic kicks, groovy basslines, and soulful sounds, trance shifted the emphasis to chord progressions and sweeping builds that prioritized melodic euphoria over pure rhythmic drive.’ No, I don’t understand it all, but it does sound as though it is designed to put its hearers into some sort of euphoric, trance-like state. One attempt at a more technical explanation says, ‘Trance music is typically characterized by a tempo between 120 and 150 beats per minute repeating melodic phrases and a musical form that distinctly builds tension.’ I’m not persuaded. Anything from Bach to the Beatles is fine by me—but I’m not interested in going into a cataleptic trance! Mind you, if today’s kids walk around in a semi-conscious state maybe we can blame it on their music?

Word(s) of the Year Today is just an alert that we are entering the Word of the Year season once again. Soon every dictionary publisher on the face of the earth will be announcing their choice for the Word of the Year 2025. At our own Macquarie Dictionary one of their categories is a ‘People’s Choice’ WOTY—and I’ll alert you here when voting is open on that. In the meantime, here are some of the new words the Macquarie drew to our attention in the course of the year (and will, presumably, be on their short list for WOTY).

millennial microwave—nickname for an air fryer

sleep tourism—travel experiences that centre on improving sleep quality

cuddle bed—this seems to be a bed for two, but not a normal double bed, rather one that allows a loved one to be close to a patient receiving medical care

tradwife—a woman who chooses domestic duties over career

sanewashing—attempting to make a person or idea appear more normal and acceptable

almond mum—a parent who promotes restricted diet, to the point of being unhealthy

bathroom camping—the teenager who just never leaves the bathroom (or it feels like never)

And they have lots more trendy (and weird) new words on their list. Meanwhile, Dictionary.com have already announced their word of the year—the latest bit of youth slang “6-7” which is pronounced ‘six-seven’. When it is said it is accompanied by a gesture—namely holding out your two hands in front of you with palms flat and moving each hand up and down a little, as if you were a set of scales weighing something. What it means is “It’s okay but not brilliant. It’s so-so.” 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. 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—and that turned it into a fad. So, that’s one suggestion for WOTY—there are lots more still to come.

The Core of the Poodle Every so often I encounter a phrase that is so intriguing (and so odd!) that it delights me. And this is the latest of them— ‘the core of the poodle.’ It is said to be a German expression that means ‘the heart of the matter.’ I suppose this is one you could incorporate into your normal conversation. Instead of saying ‘Getting down to the heart of the matter’ you could try saying ‘Getting down to the core of the poodle.’ That should raise a few eyebrows (and mark you out as a person of deep learning!) So, where does this odd phrase come from? As I said, this is apparently of German origin. And the German original of ‘the core of the poodle’ is ‘des Pudels Kern’ (literally ‘the poodle’s core’). This was coined by the great German write Goethe—in full he was Johan Wolfgang von Goethe (1749 – 1832). One of his great masterpieces is a tragic play known in English as Faust(from the name of its central character). Faust makes a deal with devil exchanging his soul for unlimited knowledge and worldly pleasures. The story of Faust is classic German legend, with a long history in German folklore. In the first part of Goethe’s play a black poodle follows Faust home and when they get home transforms into a wandering scholar, who is actually the demon Mephistopheles in disguise. Faust exclaims:  Das war also des Pudels Kern! (‘So that was the poodle's core!’); that is, ‘So that's what was going on inside the poodle!’—symbolizing deeper truths that lie below surface appearances. That’s a very long-winded way of explaining that from this source ‘the core of the poodle’ came into English with the meaning of ‘the heart of the matter.’ But it becomes even a little more bizarre than that, because the brilliant Nigel Rees in his most recent newsletter tells me that there is record store and brewery in Britain (in Haverfordwest, Pembrokeshire) called: ‘The Core of the Poodle.’ Rees comments: ‘You may well ask, as I did, why on earth is it called that?’ Yes, I do ask that. Why does a record store and brewery call itself the heart of the matter? And it is an odd combination to begin with—a record store combined with a brewery! They do have their own website, so if you’re curious you can always google them.