Kel's previous Ozwords of the day...

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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.

Brazen heist Ever since the astonishing theft of the French crown jewels from the Louvre Museum of I have struck by how often the expression ‘brazen heist’ has been used to describe the theft. Let’s look at those two words separately. The word ‘heist’ began life (in the 1930s) as an American slang variation on the word ‘hoist.’ And ‘hoist’ is an ancient word (of Germanic origin) and just means ‘to lift.’ When someone steals the French crown jewels, they ‘lift’ them and carry them way—they ‘hoist’ them—making their theft a ‘heist.’ As for ‘brazen’—this appeared in Old English more than a thousand years ago and (literally) meant ‘made of brass.’ In fact, as you can, ‘brazen’ is constructed from the word ‘brass.’ Where ‘brass’ came from is (the Oxford says) ‘unknown’—but there are related words in Old Swedish and Danish. The Old English ‘brass’ was, usually at least, an alloy of copper and tin (that is, ‘bronze’); in much later times the alloy of copper and zinc came gradually into general use, and became the ordinary ‘brass’ of England. In its earliest times ‘brass’ was known principally for its hardness. And its this quality of ‘harness’ that gave us the metaphorical extension where ‘brass’ and ‘brazen’ were used to mean something like ‘hardness of heart’ or boldness. The Merriam-Webster says it means ‘marked by shameless or disrespectful boldness.’ From at least the 1600s (and perhaps slightly earlier) ‘brazen’ was used to mean ‘a type of insensibility to shame: hence, Effrontery, impudence, unblushingness.’ And both ‘brazen’ and ‘brass’ continue to be used in that way up until today. If someone is pushing themselves forwards in a bold and insensitive way, we can still say either ‘he’s got a lot of brass’ or ‘he’s being brazen.’ And we have the common simile ‘as bold as brass.’ Which is exactly what the Louvre thieves were—bold as brass! Hence, when they lifted (or ‘hoisted’) those jewels it was a ‘brazen heist.’

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”).