Kel's previous Ozwords of the day...

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Edinglassie I have just discovered (thanks to David Blair and Placenames Australia) that Brisbane was once almost named ‘Edinglassie.’ We know that some radical activists claim that Brisbane was once called ‘Meanjin’ in the local indigenous language. Well, not quite. There never was an indigenous name for the whole of what is now the Brisbane metropolitan area. So, we can leave that ‘Meanjin’ name to one side. Which leaves us with this odd name for Brisbane of ‘Edinglassie.’ It was a Scotsman who proposed this name, which should give you the clue—it is said to be a blend of ‘Edinburgh’ and ‘Glasgow.’ The history of the Brisbane area dates from 1799 when Matthew Flinders explored Moreton Bay. A penal colony was later established and so a name was needed. On November 9th, 1824, Chief Justice Sir Francis Forbes suggested ‘Edinglassie.’ Forbes had been born in Bermuda in of Scottish parents (his brother Patrick became Moderator of the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland). But his proposal was not adopted, and the place was called ‘Brisbane’ instead. That name, as you may well already know, came from Sir Thomas Brisbane, who was Governor of New South Wales from 1821–1825. Those early governors were fond of looking at a map, and saying: ‘I name this place… after me!’ (Lachlan Macquarie was probably the champion at this game). And poor ‘Edinglassie’ was banished to a footnote in the history books. But now a word of warning. ‘Edinglassie’ may not be a combination of ‘Edinburgh’ and ‘Glasgow’ after all. There is some evidence that it was the name of an ancestral estate near Aberdeen—because in the Old Scots language ‘Edinglassie’ meant ‘steep grazing’ or ‘hill-face of the pastureland’. And perhaps that’s why the name was rejected. Janet Tent (in Placenames Australia) writes: ‘although it was not uncommon to name new settlements in Australia after places in the homeland, naming an important settlement after an obscure personal ancestral estate was perhaps seen as a tad narcissistic.’ So, Brisbane it became, and Brisbane it remains. The only variation I know of is ‘Brisvegas’—a portmanteau word constructed from Brisbane and (Las) Vegas—partly as an ironic reference to the river city’s lack of showy opulence (for which Las Vegas is famous) and partly because Brisbane was the first Queensland city to open a casino. So if our Woke airlines want to make destination boards confusing by putting up the name ‘Meanjin’ perhaps they could make it even more confusing by adding: “also known as Edinglassie”?

the Q-U question A reader (Bill) recently asked me a classic question that I’ve been asked many times before. He wrote: ‘why is it that virtually every English word using a “Q” has a “U” following it?’ That must be a question that’s occurred to most people at one time or another (perhaps when writing the word ‘question’!) I promised Bill a proper answer—so here it is. In the Latin alphabet (the one we use to write English) there are only 26 letters—but there are more than 26 sounds. The solution that has developed (over many centuries) is to use combinations of letters for some sounds. That is why we use ‘ch’ to represent that sound in ‘chip’. Another example is ‘th’ which we use for the sound that was once represented by a single letter in Old English. A letter called a ‘thorn’, which looked a little bit like the letter ‘Y’ which is why an English pub might be called ‘Ye Old Cheese’. In that name ‘Ye’ should be said as ‘the’ because the ‘Y’ is the Old English letter ‘thorn.’ In fact, ‘th’ represents two closely related sounds: (1) the voiced sound in ‘the’ and (2) the unvoiced sound in ‘thin.’ I might look like I’ve wandered off the track, but I haven’t. Because that’s the role the ‘qu’ plays in English (under the influence of French spellings that arrived with the Norman Conquest in 1066)— ‘qu’ represents the sound that we could write as ‘kw’. As you just saw in the word ‘conquest’ qu makes a ‘kw’ sound. So, you might ask—why not just write ‘kw’? Well, we once did. In Old English ‘queen’ was written ‘cwen’ (with the ‘c’ pronounced as a ‘k’). When French became the language of the ruling class, French spellings took over in many words—making ‘qu’ the standard English representation of the ‘kw’ sound. There is more to the story (but I think you’d already guessed that!) French inherited the ‘qu’ combination from other, more ancient languages. The ancient Phoenicians had two different ‘k’ sounds—one made at the front of the mouth (like us) and one made as a guttural sound at the back of the mouth. The first was indicated by a letter that looked a bit like our ‘k’ and the second by one that looked a bit like our ‘q’ (it was called a ‘monkey’ because it had a curly tail). That letter passed through other languages (Etruscan, Latin and so on) to end up in French as half of the ‘kw’ sound written ‘qu.’ Language textbooks devote whole chapters to this subject, so I have summarised a lot. Bill, does this help? Does this make any sense for you of the common use of ‘qu’ in English? 

Anglo Saxons A university has removed the term Anglo-Saxon from course titles in a bid to ‘decolonise the curriculum.’ The University of Nottingham is removing the expression from a number of courses, including History and English Literature, and replacing it with ‘Early Medieval English.’ The expression ‘Anglo-Saxon’ means: ‘a member of the English-speaking people inhabiting England before the Norman Conquest’ (Oxford English Dictionary). This term ‘Anglo-Saxon’ goes back to Roman times and is recorded in Latin (Anglo-Saxones is the way those Latin speakers and writers would have put it). It also turns up in Old English more than a thousand years ago. The type of language those people spoke was once also called ‘Anglo-Saxon’ but a long time ago (by the middle of the 20th century) that had switched to ‘Old English’ as a more accurate label. But now the Woke tell us that none of this is politically correct enough. Academics have been campaigning to replace Anglo-Saxon with ‘Early Medieval English’. And why would that bother them? Well, it seems they are concerned that ‘Anglo-Saxon’ suggests a distinct, native Englishness. Sorry, dear Woke academics, but there really is an English people, and that means there really is something that might be called ‘Englishness.’ But then they turn around and blame the Americans, saying that ‘Anglo-Saxon’ has become too associated in recent years with racists—particularly those in America—who use it to describe white people. But how can they re-write history? There really were Anglo-Saxons. They existed. They lived in Britain. And (horror of horrors!) they were white people. How can they deny reality? What really happened in the past? The term Anglo-Saxon is used to describe the cultural group of people who emerged in the aftermath of the fall of Roman Britain and the before the Norman conquest in 1066. It refers to three Germanic peoples—the Angles, Saxons and Jutes—who ruled what would become a united England. If we are going to start pretending that Anglo-Saxons don’t (and never did) exist, who else shall we pretend can’t exist? Germans? Italians? Norwegians? Celts? Well, yes, the Celts are also under attack. This Woke thinking claims that not only Anglo-Saxons, but also Scottish, Welsh and Irish identities are not ‘coherent.’ Tell that to the Scots, the Irish and the Welsh! (I am Celtic—from Cornish forebears.) The only incoherence here is the destruction of any sort of honesty and intellectual integrity in our universities!

De-colonise One of the wokest of woke words these days ‘de-colonise.’ In the wake of the Black Lives Matter protests in 2020, Universities across the UK and around the world began a process of ‘decolonising the curriculum.’ According to the left-wing website The Conversation the word ‘decolonisation’ was coined by German economist Moritz Julius Bonn in the 1930s to describe former colonies that achieved self-governance. However, their explanation doesn’t quite stack up. The word ‘decolonise’ is recorded in the Buffalo (New York) Daily Republic in 1851 with the meaning of ‘To free a country from the rule or control of a colonial power, bringing about political or economic independence’ (Oxford English Dictionary). The Oxford adds that this use was rare until the second half of the 20th century. And that makes sense, since it was following WWII that Britain (and other European powers) started encouraging colonies to stand on their own two feet and become independent, sovereign nations. But now this word ‘decolonise’ (either with or without the hyphen) is being used in a way that I struggle to understand. It is being used of places such as Britain. Now, Britain has not been a colony since the Romans left in 388 AD. So, if ‘decolonise’ means getting rid of a colony power and becoming independent that happened long ago for Britain. But now we are told that the word has different meanings. The word seems to have developed through a few steps: (1) the political step of political independence from the old colonial power; (2) the cultural step of restoring elements in the local culture that were submerged during the colonial period—for example India changing placenames from Bombay to Mumbai and so on; and (3) this third, and strange, step of the former colonial power having to ‘decolonise’ itself. This is the one I struggle to make any sense of. Does that mean Britain must get rid of anything that came from its colonial period? Would every Indian restaurant in Britain have to close? Of course not! (The English love their curries—so no one would get away with that!) Would universities have stop teaching books written by writers from former colonies? So Vikram Seth and Anita Desai and countless others would have to be taken out of the curriculum? No, that’s not what they mean either. In fact, at least one British university has decided to kick the great Greek philosophers Plato and Aristotle into the long grass, and they claim this is ‘decolonising’! You can understand my confusion, can’t you? Those great minds had nothing to do with colonising, and a lot to do with the great heritage of world philosophy. But cutting off that heritage is supposed to be ‘decolonising’? These people don’t know what they’re talking about!

Hyphens Tim wrote to me to say, ‘Can you tell me about the use/mis-use/misuse of the hyphen? Why do some prominent newspapers insist on cost-of-living? Why is that phrase hyphenated? What about a few words about the proper use of the hyphen? Anything to protect our language is always appreciated.’ I did give Tim his ‘few words’ on the ‘Q and A’ page—but it’s worth saying a bit more about these tricky little dashes. The word ‘hyphen’ came into English from a Greek expression meaning ‘together’ or ‘in one.’ It’s recorded in our language from the early 1600s. Here’s the official and formal definition from the Oxford English Dictionary: ‘A short dash or line (-) used to connect two words together as a compound; also, to join the separated syllables of a word, as at the end of a line; or to divide a word into parts for etymological or other purposes.’ In other words, a hyphen is a short dash that links words (or parts of words). A common use of hyphens is to link modifiers to the words they modify (‘cost-of-living’ or ‘brother-in-law’). This is done to show the link between the words—and show that it is a strong link. That is worth doing if it’s the link you want to stress. But the hyphen is the most variable element in writing words—so there will never be universal agreement on its use. For instance, the English Oxford dictionary uses hyphens more often than the American Webster’s does. The best rule is: restrict the use of hyphens as far as possible. So keep them in ‘cost-of-living’ if you want to show that the three words are one idea. And keep them between parts of words where needed—between the two Os of ‘co-ordinate’ or the two Is of ‘anti-intellectual.’ But where it is possible to drop them, drop them. Don’t allow them to breed: restrict the use of hyphens as far as possible. And to eliminate confusion, let me add that there are three dashes commonly used in texts. The hyphen is the shortest of these (-). The other two are the N-dash and the M-dash. The N-dash is a little longer than a hyphen and appears between words with a space on either side – like this. The M-dash is the longest of the three, and links words in a sentence like this—as you can see. To create an N-dash on your word processor hit space, followed by two hyphens, followed by a space and the next word (word / space / hyphen / hyphen / space / word). The computer will turn the two hyphens into an N-dash. To create an M-dash do the same but leave out the spaces (word / hyphen / hyphen / word). The computer will then turn the two hyphens into an M-dash. Both N-dashes and M-dashes can be used in place of commas (bracketing off parenthetical expressions) or in place of a colon (setting up the second part of a sentence as the logical conclusion of the first part). Does that help at all?

Blah-blah-blah A reader (John) has asked me when and how the expression ‘blah-blah-blah’ came into our language. Tracing it back, the story is this. 'Blah' appeared (as an American colloquial expression) in 1918 with the definition: ‘meaningless, insincere, or pretentious talk.’ The word is imitative—that is, it mocked such talk by implying that it was full of sounds not real words. Then in 1931 it became ‘blah-blah-blah’—implying that people went on and on in this boring fashion. There is historical precedent for this. The Greeks called non-Greeks ‘barbarians’ because they spoke a foreign language and to the Greeks this sounded as if they were just uttering noises: bar, bar, bar. Which is where the word ‘barbarians’ comes from. The ancient Greek word was barbaros—which meant anyone who couldn’t speak Greek and hence was ‘outlandish, rude, brutal’ (and whose barbaric languages was mere noises: bar, bar, bar). Our modern ‘blah-blah-blah’ expression is a very similar sort of put-down. There, is of course, a more up to date expression—instead of ‘blah-blah-blah’ we can now say ‘yadda-yadda.’ I first heard on this on Seinfeld in the 1990s. In one episode, all the characters use the phrase to casually breeze over the details of stories. Writer Howard Rudnik seems to credit Jerry Seinfeld and the show’s writer Larry David with coining the expression saying, ‘it originated from the little classic show, Seinfeld.’ He adds that he is ‘so grateful for Larry David and Jerry Seinfeld introducing this phrase into the human vernacular and developing a cultural zeitgeist of the 90s.’ Except that they didn’t. The term ‘yadda-yadda-yadda’ is recorded from at least 1967 (when it appeared in a Lenny Bruce comedy monologue). And it may be older than that. In 1947 Oscar Hammerstein wrote a song called ‘Yatata yatata yatata.’ Which suggests that these sorts of noises were being used to suggest the ‘blah-blah-blah’ of meaningless or unimportant or uninteresting details long before Seinfeld spread the popularity of the expression far and wide. I’ve ended up telling John far more than he asked about (but, hey, when I get started on language there’s no stopping me). But all of it (I hope) has proved interesting to John (and you as well!)

Swagman Yesterday, in writing about ‘Bluey’ I quoted the American dictionary Merriam-Websteron their definition of a ‘swagman’—who they labelled a ‘drifter.’ So I pulled down their big book from my shelves (the Merriam-Webster Third International Unabridged) to see what else they might have to say. In those pages they go on to call a swagman a ‘vagrant’, adding: ‘one who carries a swag when traveling.’ Then they claim that ‘vagabond’ is a synonym for ‘swagman.’ Really? Surely a ‘vagrant’ or a ‘vagabond’ is someone who is avoiding work, looking for handouts because they’re too lazy to work? The Longman Dictionary of Contemporary English says a ‘vagrant’ is ‘someone who has no home or work, especially someone who begs.’ And that wasn’t really the standard approach of swaggies back in the days when they walked the bush. They were looking for work. The usual routine was for the swaggie to stop at an isolated outback homestead and ask for work. If there was some job they could do, they might do it in return for a good dinner that night. If there was a few days work they might get a bed and meals and a few shillings. When the work ran out (or if there was no work) they’d move on. That was the pattern for most swagmen. Of course there were always a few who would scam the system. One such was called a ‘sundowner’—because he’d arrive at a station at sundown, after the day’s work was done and finished, say he was sorry he was too late to find work, but could he have a bed and a meal anyway? But leaving the odd scammer to one side, the swaggie was not an aimless ‘drifter’ nor was he really a ‘vagabond’ or ‘vagrant.’ I suspect the notion of the itinerant worker moving through the colonies is a hard one for modern readers to grasp—but it is really how some people earned their living in those days. By the way, the ‘swag’ he carried is an even older word—a bit of convict slang. It is recorded by James Hardy Vaux in his Dictionary of the Flash Language as thieves’ slang for ‘a bundle, parcel, or package… a term used in speaking of any booty you have lately obtained.’ By the way, this same man (Vaux) lived a colourful life (transported to the Colony of New South Wales not once, but three times!) and found time to write the first dictionary ever produced here. I tell his amazing and colourful story in my book Flash Jim. (The book is available from Amazon: Amazon.com.au : Flash Jim). And the blanket swaggies wrapped the bundle of simple possessions in usually a grey-blue colour and so was called a ‘bluey’ (which brings us back to where we began!)

Bluey This little Aussie word has now conquered the world! The great American dictionary, the Merriam-Webster, recently listed ‘bluey’as one of its ‘words worth knowing.’ And all because of the brilliant, animated TV series of that name—created by Joe Brumm and featuring a family of blue cattle dogs living in Brisbane (in a classic old ‘Queenslander’ style house) and the imaginative games Mum and Dad play with their small children (one of whom is named ‘Bluey’). And ‘bluey’ is one of those Aussie words with lots of meanings. As well as ‘blue cattle dog’ it can mean anyone with red hair (that’s the Aussie sense of humour—a short bloke is called ‘lofty’ and a red-head is called ‘bluey’); or a parking ticket (once issued on blue paper); or a swagman’s swag (rolled in a blue blanket); or even one of those stinging bluebottles that wash up on the beach. And there was a time when ‘bluey’ meant a durable woollen jacket or full-length coat, both warm and waterproof. It was designed by Robert Marriott (an early pioneer of the Derwent Valley, in Tasmania) and marketed with the words: ‘Put your bluey on if you’re going out in this weather.’ Even the Septic Tanks are starting to get the idea—with the great Merriam-Webster lexicographers writing: ‘As a noun, according to our unabridged dictionary, bluey has been used…  to refer to: a blue crab; any of several Australian lizards; and a bundle carried by a swagman (or “drifter”), due to the blue blanket commonly used to wrap the bundle.’ And don’t you just love their definition of a ‘swaggie’ as a ‘drifter’? Well, I suppose they’re getting close. But back to the brilliant cartoon series. Joe Brumm says he wanted to give his kids’ show ‘Brisbane values’ showing the influence of a supportive family. We have watched the show with our two little grandsons (aged four and six) and they love it. So much so, that after an episode they want to play the games that Bluey’s family plays—‘torch mouse’ or ‘feather wand’ or whatever. (If you don’t know those games—see what you’re missing out on!)  It has been praised by television critics (and anyone with half a brain, to be honest) for depicting a modern everyday family life, constructive parenting messages, and the role of Bandit as a positive father figure. In other words—the family life shown in ‘Bluey’ is normal (a word that terrifies the Woke among us). And ‘bluey’ a great Aussie word to share with the world! 

One fell swoop This is one that many people (perhaps most people?) get wrong. What you hear people say time and time again is: ‘one foul swoop.’ Wrong.  Completely wrong. The correct version (and the only correct version) is: ‘one fell swoop.’ Clearly the change has been made because ‘fell’ has become a rare and unfamiliar word—so folk substitute a word that is (a) familiar, and (b) seems to fit. Which is how they go off the rails (and run ‘foul’ of the English language!). So, what about ‘fell’—what does the word mean? I was told many years ago that it means ‘wild’—making that familiar expression into ‘one wild swoop’, which certainly captures the meaning. And ‘fell’ (so I was told) was related to the ‘fells’ (wild country) such as the Cumbrian mountains in the Lake District in England. And to ‘feral’ (as in ‘feral animals’) since an animal that had ‘gone feral’ has ‘gone wild.’ However, it is possible to be a bit more precise than that. Flipping open my full Oxford English Dictionary I discover that ‘fell’ came into English around 1300 from a French source word, and the meaning then was much closer to ‘evil’ or ‘dangerous’ than ‘wild’ (although, clearly, those meanings could be related—something that is ‘wild’ can also be dangerous). The great Michael Quinion, in his wonderful book Port Out, Starboard Home: and other language myths (Penguin Books, 2004) says that fell ‘actually means something of terrible evil or deadly ferocity.’ He adds that the more familiar word ‘felon’ comes from the same source, because ‘Originally, a felon was a cruel or wicked person.’ So, saying ‘wild’ is not entirely wrong, but ‘ferocious’ is better. Think of a wild, destructive, and ferocious cyclone—it could destroy your house in ‘one fell blow.’ The common distortion ‘one foul swoop’ is a foul distortion, and something we should not stand for. Now you know the correct expression, be sure to use it, and correct everyone who gets it wrong in your presence. If they challenge what you tell them, send them to me—I’ll put them straight. So, there you are—you have a licence to correct all your relatives and all your friends. Of course, you may lose a few friends along the way—but, hey, getting it right is more important, okay?

Razbliuto Is this a real word, or not? An Ozwords reader (Raymond) asked me what I thought about this word, so I had to do some digging. The claim is that ‘razbliuto’ (pronounced—ros-blee-OO-toe) is a Russian word that means a sentimental or nostalgic feeling. But is it? We have to be suspicious because there is no entry for ‘razbliuto’ is either the magisterial Oxford English Dictionary or the American giant the Merriam Webster Third International Unabridged. Nor is it in the Cambridge or the Collins or any other major dictionary. It does appear in the online Urban Dictionary with the following definition: ‘the sentimental feeling you have about someone you once loved but no longer do.’ They have a citation from 2009, but the Urban Dictionary is written by amateur contributors, so I have my doubts. The word ‘razbliuto’ appeared in print in 1988 in Howard Reingold’s book They Have a Word for Itwhich claims to discover words and phrases for which there are no equivalents in English. Reingold claims to have explored some 40 (mostly obscure) languages to find strange words for which there is no exact equivalent in English. But as well as languages from New Guinea, Easter Island and Tibet he reports this one (‘razbliuto’) as being Russian—hardly an obscure language. He doesn’t quote a Russian dictionary as his source, but a book called Hodgepodge (published in 1986 and written by someone called J. Bryan III). But J. Bryan III gives no source for this word he claims is Russian. However, once it was in print this ‘language myth’ (what else can we call it?) kept going. It was quoted by linguist Christopher Moore in his 2004 book In Other Words which is said to be ‘a unique collection of well-known and absolutely obscure untranslatable words―linguistic gems that convey a feeling or notion with satisfying precision yet resist simple translation.’ This was picked up and passed on by the late, great William Safire—the greatest of all language journalists. After which it began appearing online (including on the Urban Dictionary site). But it has still never made an appearance in any Russian dictionary, for the very good reason that there is no such Russian word. Still the word refuses to die. This year it turned up as the name of a Japanese animated movie. According to the Language Hat website, the whole mistake may have begun in the 1960s TV series The Man from Uncle (in which David McCallum played a Russian named Ilya Kuryakin). In one episode he was supposed to use the word razlyubleno—which is a real Russian word meaning ‘fallen out of love’ but there was a typo in the script and this non-existent word was invented. Yes, I know it’s a convoluted story—but isn’t it interesting how people are keen to discover an obscure word, without asking too many questions about it? (Or any questions at all, really!)

Oasis There has been much excitement in the media about the Brit-Pop group ‘Oasis’ getting back together again—something to do with the healing of a rift between the brothers Noel and Liam Gallagher. I’m sure their music is terrific (and that you know and love it well) but I am one of those old fogies who think good music ended when the Beatles broke up (just showing my age!) Anyway, this is seen as a vastly important cultural event, with tours announced for Britain and Ireland and a possible world tour to follow. The lexicographers at the Merriam-Webster Dictionary tell me that one result of this media noise has been a spike in people looking-up the word ‘oasis’ on their online dictionary. So, what is the history of the word, and where does it come from? ‘Oasis’ first turns up in English in the year 1613. But why is a green, fertile spot in a desert called an ‘oasis’? Well, it seems that to begin with ‘Oasis’ was a placename, a proper name—like ‘London’ or ‘Mount Everest.’ More than that it was the proper name of a place—a green and fertile place—in the Libyan desert. The name appears in classical Latin and also in ancient Greek. Herodotus used it. Ah, I can see by the blank look on your face that you’ve forgotten Herodotus. He was an ancient Greek historian and geographer. He lived from around 484 BC to around 425 BC (remember BC years count downwards—making him around 59 years-old when he died). His Histories primarily cover the lives of prominent kings and famous battles—which resulted in Cicero calling him ‘the Father of History.’ Anyway, for our purposes he used this placename ‘Oasis’ for the green and fertile spot in the Libyan desert. Then this proper placename came to be applied to any ‘placein a desert where there is water and therefore plants and trees and sometimes a village or town’ (Cambridge Dictionary). Which is a bit like calling every mountain ‘Everest’—but that is what happened. ‘Oasis’ has also been used figuratively to mean ‘a place or period of calm or pleasure in the midst of a difficult or hectic situation; a place of relief, a refuge’ (Oxford English Dictionary). Which, from what I read about the feuding Gallagher brothers never really applied to the band ‘Oasis.’ Who are now back. Hence, this word.

Platitude My colleague at Sky News James Morrow has branded the joint CNN interview with Kamala Harris and Tim Walz as a ‘symphony of platitudes.’ After Kamala Harris’ acceptance speech at the Democratic National Convention the Editorial Board of The Wall Street Journal responded under a headline that said: ‘Kamala Harris Offers a “New Way Forward: of Platitudes.’ In an interview with New York Times Kamala Harris herself said: ‘I find it off-putting to just engage in platitudes.’ But that is what she is constantly accused of. So, let’s begin by going back to this word ‘platitude’ and looking at its origin and meaning. ‘Platitude’ turns up in the English language from 1762 with the meaning of ‘the quality (esp. in speech or writing) of dullness, insipidity, or banality’ (Oxford English Dictionary). This word ‘platitude’ is often used as a criticism of a statement that has been made many times before. Sometimes it used to mean a statement full of fine-sounding words, but no detail and nothing concrete. ‘Platitude’ comes from two components: the first part (‘plat-’) means ‘flat.’ Somewhere behind the French word (found in Anglo-Norman and Old French) is a post-classical Latin word plattus meaning ‘flat, smooth, broad’ and further back there is an ancient Greek word with same meaning. So, any political statement that is nice to listen to, but is vague, broad, flat and featureless is a ‘platitude.’ And example might Kamala Harris promise to create an ‘opportunity economy.’ Those two words look good and sound good—no one could object to them. The problem is that her statement ends with uttering those two words. She doesn’t go on and say, ‘And to do that I will…’ and spell out the policy details of how she will create this nice sounding ‘opportunity economy.’ That makes it a ‘platitude’—a flat, smooth, broad (and largely meaningless) statement. The accusation from her political opponents is that Kamala Harris speaks far too often in mere ‘platitudes.’ The UK Telegraph commented on her first interview since becoming the Democrats presidential nominee with these words: ‘Word salads and nonsense platitudes were back.’ The paper went on to give an example: ‘Even the most anticipated of questions – “What would you do on day one in the White House?” – was met with a vague, rambling pledge to the “middle class”.’ So, does Kamala Harris speak in platitudes? You can listen and decide for yourself. But I would add that there are Australian politicians who also seem keen on giving us platitudes rather than policies. Now you know the meaning and origin of the word—you can listen out for them yourself.

New words I like to keep you up to date with the latest words being added to dictionaries around the world. So, here’s an update—the latest list of words Dictionary.com is adding to their online dictionary. The words listed are followed by the definitions as provided by Dictionary.com. (My comments appear in brackets at the end of each entry.)

Babygirl—noun. Slang: an attractive male, often a celebrity, who is admired for being cute, sensitive, vulnerable, or stylish. (I can’t believe this ‘babygirl’ expression could ever apply to any man in any sensible sentence. But perhaps “sensible’ doesn’t come into it?)

Dudebro—noun. Slang: Disparaging. a young, usually white male who is perceived as obnoxiously entitled and often prejudiced or narrow-minded. (I think they mean the sort of person we used to describe as being ‘up himself.’ Or, as a friend of mine used to say, ‘He has delusions of adequacy!’)

Hot rodent man—noun. Slang: a quirky, unconventionally handsome man (often a celebrity), likened to a physically attractive cartoon rat or mouse, and praised for traits such as intelligence and sensitivity. (It’s meant to be flattering to be compared to a rat? What’s next? A cartoon character called Ratman? Well, we already have Batman, don’t we?)

Chemo brain—noun. Medicine/Medical Informal. a common side effect of some cancer treatments that is characterized by cognitive impairments, such as memory and recall difficulties, confusion, difficulty concentrating, or loss of mental alertness. (A sad word, but probably one we need. We all know people who’ve been through this horror.)

Ambient temperature—noun. the temperature of the air at a given time and in a particular place or circumstance. (Eh? What’s the difference between ‘ambient temperature’ and just plain old ‘temperature’? Ah, yes, there isn’t any! So, another pointless expression, then?)

Cooling centre—noun. an air-conditioned or otherwise cooled facility, such as a school, library, or mall, that is open to the public during a period of hot weather in order to provide relief from the heat. (We’ve all done it haven’t we? Gone to the big shopping mall on a steaming not day—so they pay the cost of air conditioning, and not us!)

Zero carbon—adjective. of, relating to, or resulting in no production of carbon emissions. (‘Carbon’ is thick, black stuff—and you don’t find it floating around in the air. What they mean is ‘carbon dioxide’—which is a gas. But they can’t admit that, because carbon dioxide is essential to life on earth, and without it we all die.)

Traumatic brain injury—noun. Medicine/Medical. damage to the brain from a source outside the body, such as an object that strikes the head violently or penetrates the skull, which causes symptoms ranging from headache and dizziness to permanent physical or mental disability. (This is a blow from the famous ‘blunt object’ we’ve read about in crime novels. I suspect the doctors have already shortened it to TBI.)

Well, that’s the list from Dictionary.com. I find it a bit surprising in the sense that these expressions strike me as being either (a) not necessary, or (b) not new. Sorry, Dictionary.com—I would mark your paper “must try harder.”

DDoS This is another of those computer terms that we are all going to have to get used to, in this modern world of hackers and scammers. One of these days you’ll try to get onto some website you need (your bank or whatever) and find that you are locked out and the site is down. Later you’ll be told that the site suffered from a ‘DDoS’. This mysterious bunch of initials means ‘Distributed Denial of Service.’  This (I am told, after all, I am not a tech head) is “a cybercrime in which the attacker floods a server with internet traffic to prevent users from accessing connected online services and sites.” Denial of service (again this is what I am told) is typically accomplished by flooding the targeted website with superfluous requests in an attempt to overload systems and prevent the legitimate requests from being fulfilled. They add the word ‘Distributed’ to this nasty business because the attack doesn’t come from one source. Instead, they use a whole bunch of widespread computers to all launching the attack at once. Hence, it is a ‘distributed’ attack. A while back, you’ll remember, Elon Musk did on online interview with Donald Trump that was late in getting started—because (we were told) of a ‘DDoS’. The interesting question (to me, at least) is the motivation for such attacks. In the case of the Musk-Trump interview it might have come from Iran (who hate Trump and don’t want to see him back in the White House). In other cases, my guess would be the goal is some sort of financial gain. When the Russian mafia launch a ‘DDoS’ on a major, global corporation their goal might be to demand some ‘protection money’ from the target. This is just an updated, cyber-age, version of the old-fashioned ‘protection money’ racket the Mafia ran for years. A couple of big, tough thugs would swagger into a small shop, and promise the trembling shop owner that he’d ‘have no trouble’ as long as he paid them some ‘insurance’ money. Now that everything is pulsating ones and zeros online a ‘DDoS’ the cyber equivalent. I have no idea what the targets of such attacks can do. Is there a technical solution? But how could they shut out what appear (at first arrival) to be genuine requests from potential customers? And then before you know it the system is choking and shutting down. Mind you, the clever software architects have probably worked out something—but if they tried to explain it to me, I wouldn’t understand!

Rhetorical I’ve been flooded with requests to explain this word ‘rhetorical’—which I have answered (briefly) on the ‘Q and A’ page but it is probably time for a longer discussion, so here it is. The word is in the news because the head of ASIO, Mike Burgess, said in a TV interview that he would approve a visa for (allow into Australia) people who gave ‘rhetorical’ support to the terrorist organisation Hamas. Prime Minister Anthony Albanese and his team were asked repeatedly about this in parliament, and refused to reject the proposition—suggesting that this is indeed government policy: it’s okay to give the war-criminal terrorists Hamas ‘rhetorical’ support. The word ‘rhetoric’ means ‘the art of expressive speech or discourse’ (Merriam-Webster dictionary). And the Longman Dictionary of Contemporary English says that the adjectival form of the word, ‘rhetorical’ means ‘using speech or writing in special ways in order to persuade people.’ The word has been part of the English language since the 1300s, and comes from a classical Latin source word. I suspect that Mike Burgess has long since regretted saying what he did, and using the word ‘rhetorical’ (unless, of course, it was done deliberately to expose the instructions the government had given him). Because if we take his words seriously, he is asserting that people from Gaza are welcome to come to Australia if they say out loud that they support Hamas (especially if they say it persuasively). Such a policy can only have Australians shaking their heads in puzzlement and disbelief. If people who say (that’s the ‘rhetorical’ bit) that they support Hamas are allowed into Australia, who will ever be excluded? Do they have to be carrying a gun when they say it before they are denied a visa? We know that ASIO has conducted no face-to-face interviews with people leaving Gaza to come to Australia, so on what basis can they evaluate what these people say about their support for Hamas? It remains both baffling and worrying.

Mpox Have you come across references to ‘mpox’ on the news? It appears that a dangerous strain of ‘mpox’ has appeared outside Africa for the first time. Cases have turned up in Europe, so the World Health Organisation has issued a global public health emergency alert. This sounds like a pretty bad thing to run across. And the Australian government is issuing warnings to Australians travellers to be on the alert. The latest case has been detected, apparently, in Sweden, which puts that Scandinavian country on the ‘danger’ list as a travel destination. The word ‘mpox’ was first recorded in 1988—long before we heard anything about it. And its name comes from the fact that it’s a variation on ‘monkeypox.’ My guess is that authorities worried that travellers would think, ‘Well, I’m not a monkey, and I’m not mixing with monkeys, so I’m safe.’ Which would be a dangerous assumption, since this variation, called ‘mpox’, now exists in people, and can be passed from person to person. Have there been outbreaks here? Well, it seems so. Australian health officials have alerted the public to a rise in mpox cases in New South Wales, urging residents to be vigilant for symptoms of the disease. So, what are the symptoms? Well, they include fever, skin rash, possibly on the hands, feet, chest, face, mouth and near the genitals, swollen lymph nodes, headache, muscle aches and backaches, chills, sore throat and cough, and tiredness. (I hope I’m not putting you off here—just trying to pass on the information I’ve managed to pick up.) The lexicographers at the Merriam-Webster Dictionary tell me that ‘mpox’ has spiked in look-ups recently (follow the WHO warning). They make the comment that, ‘The World Health Organization announced on November 28, 2022, that it would begin using the preferred name mpox over monkeypox to refer to this disease due to the stigmatizing nature of the original name.’ In other words, ‘mpox’ is starting to make a monkey of us!

Neurodiversity Have you come across this one? I keep stumbling across ‘neurodiversity’ in news stories, and I always feel baffled by it. Many of the definitions being offered don’t help. For instance, they tell me that ‘neurodiversity’ means that human brains function in diverse ways. And that’s supposed to be news? Are they claiming this has just been discovered? This was supposedly only discovered in 1998 (when the word ‘neurodiversity’ first appeared in print). Surely the human race has always known this? Shakespeare clearly knew the different (and diverse) ways in which human brains work. That’s why he has the tragic King Lear as one sort of person (thinker) and ineffectual Hamlet as another. So, why the need for this new word? Even the word looks to be unnecessary, since ‘neuro’ means brain (and nervous system) and ‘diverse’ means… well… diverse. But as I read on I realised what sort of linguistic switch is being pulled here. The word was invented by the autism community so that they wouldn’t be called autistic. That’s really all it is. Now, for anyone who is autistic, or has an autistic child, my heart goes out to you. But there’s no need to fiddle with the language, since ‘autism’ already says this perfectly well. In the 1990s there was something called the Autism Network International. Over a number of conferences they began inventing an alternative language for autism. As far as I can make out, they want to argue that autism is not a disability, it is only a difference. Unless, of course, they are looking for funding under the NDIS—the National Disability Insurance Scheme. Then it becomes a disability again. Or is that just me being a smart-alec, sceptical journalist? (In that case I apologise.) The neurodiversity paradigm argues that diversity in human cognition is normal, and we should stop saying the people on the autism spectrum have a disorder. But this strikes me as a pointless talk-around. Surely TV’s Doc Martin (played by Martin Clunes) was at the low end of the autism spectrum? What used to be Asperger’s Syndrome? And simply saying that the character is ‘neurodiverse’ really tells us nothing we didn’t already know, and doesn’t change his situation. I don’t how widespread the use of this ‘neurodiversity’ language is, but at least you now know what it means.

Hot dog Why is a hot frankfurter in a bread roll called a ‘hot dog’? There is a well-known story often told to explain this. The story is wrong, but it’s a good story—so here it is. The claim isthat back in the early years of the 20th century a man named Harry Stevens started selling hot frankfurters in bread rolls at baseball games. New York cartoonist T. A, Dorgan (who signed his cartoons ‘Tad’) wanted to do a cartoon about this, showing a dachshund (which for a long time had been called a ‘sausage dog’) in a bread roll. But he couldn’t spell the word ‘dachshund’ so instead of ‘hot dachshund’ he wrote ‘hot dog.’ And that, we are told, is how the expression was born. It’s a lovely story. Completely untrue, unfortunately, but such a good story it’s worth telling again. So, if it’s wrong, where did ‘hot dog’ really come from? The answer seems to be from jokey university students. Well before Harry Stevens and Tad Dorgan, students at Yale University were making jokes about the sort of meat that might be inside the hot frankfurters sold from food wagons. And the (rather tasteless) joke was that such hot sausages contained dog meat. Jokes along these lines have been made for years. Aussies still (sometimes) call meat pies ‘rat coffins’ or a fruit slice can be called a ‘fly cemetery’ (you think those little black things are raisins?) And don’t get me started on the old schoolboy jokes about why there are no stray cats in the vicinity of certain restaurants! In the same undergraduate style these jokes have been made around the world for many years. (You’re halfway through a sausage roll when your school mate says: ‘Whaddya reckon happens to old racehorses? You’re probably eating one!’) So, as good as the Harry Stevens-Tad Dorgan story is (and as popular as it is), we can source the name ‘hot dog’ back to a schoolboy sense of humour. (To which I should add that I have, rather innocently, believed the Harry Stevens-Tad Dorgan story, and repeated it for years. But now I know better!)