More WOTY I warned you a little while ago that we’re coming into the ‘Word of the Year’ time again—when one dictionary after another will tell us their choice for the Word of the Year 2024. Australia’s own Macquarie Dictionary does things a little differently. They want to know your choice for Word of the Year. They have published their shortlist of possible words, and are asking you to vote for your choice. Here’s their list—together with their explanations (and my comments in brackets):

Brain-rot 1. content, especially as viewed on a social media platform and for an extended duration, which is considered to be of low quality in terms of intellectual stimulation. 2. the supposed diminished mental capacity caused by the consumption of such content. (I quite like this, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it were to be the winner. We can see those people glued to their phones, ignoring the world, and losing IQ points with every passing minute.)

Enshittification the gradual deterioration of a service or product brought about by a reduction in the quality of service provided, especially of an online platform. (Sorry, this is just too vulgar for me. Do we really need words like this?)

Fairy porn a subgenre of fantasy fiction which explores relationships between humans and supernatural characters, especially characterised by explicit depiction of sexual relationships. (Really? This exists?)

Incidentaloma a tumour which is unexpectedly discovered while undergoing a physical examination, medical imaging or surgery for an unrelated medical investigation or procedure. (A real phenomenon I’m sure—but a clumsily constructed word). 

Kup murri 1. an earth oven for pit cooking in the traditional Torres Strait Islander style. 2. food prepared in this manner. 3. a feast at which such food is served. (Yeah, sure, the sort of word used almost every day in Aussie homes!)

Looksmaxxing the act of improving one's physical attractiveness as much as possible, especially as undertaken by young men. (This is such an ordinary idea I’d be more impressed by ‘looksminimising’!)

Overtourism a situation in which too many people are visiting a tourist destination, causing damage and degradation, and adversely affecting the lifestyle of local residents as well as their own experience as tourists. (Do we need a word for this?)

Pig butchering a type of fraud in which a scammer portrays themselves as a friend, romantic interest, financial adviser, etc., in order to gain the trust of their victim and convince them to invest money, the scammer disappearing with the funds once the victim’s resources have been drained. (I was wondering how the poor pig got involved in this, but apparently it has to do with fattening a pig before killing and roasting it.)

It's a long list, isn’t it? And we’re only halfway through! The rest tomorrow. In the meantime, if you’d like to see the rest and cast a vote, here’s the link:  Vote now for the Macquarie Dictionary Word of the Year 2024 

Loser’s consent A few years Nigel Farage told me that democracy runs on ‘loser’s consent.’ Without that, he said, society fractures. The expression ‘loser’s consent’ seems not to be in most of the major dictionaries yet—but surely it’s just a matter of time. There was a book called Loser’s Consent: Elections and Democratic Legitimacy published back 2005. And, by way of explanation, I should say that ‘loser’s consent’ can be withheld (and democracy damaged) in a number of different ways—not just by saying ‘I really won, I didn’t lose’ (which is the most obvious way). We saw Donald Trump withhold loser’s consent in 2020—and try to hinder the smooth transfer of power. The riots on January 6, 2021 were a noisy rejection of ‘loser’s consent.’ Shameful. But the 2016 behaviour of the Democrats was equally shameful—promoting the fictional ‘Russia collusion’ fraud; promoting the slogan ‘not my president’; Hillary Clinton claiming she had “really” won the 2016 election; hiding the Hunter Biden laptop; twice impeaching Trump and so on. All of those are failures to understand and practice ‘loser’s consent.’ And now the Democrats are once again—in some ways—struggling with ‘loser’s consent.’ Joe Biden is doing it well, supporting a smooth transfer of power. But the Democrat media have gone into meltdown because Trump is actually doing what he said he would do in his cabinet appointments. They are in tears and sneering abuse before any cabinet member has actually been appointed (that is, gone through the necessary senate hearings) or done anything. It’s as if they don’t understand democracy—they lost, the other bloke won, and he’s doing what he said he would do. When people with Democrat sympathies, working in government departments in Washington, try disrupt or slow down what Trump is trying to do that is an underhanded and disreputable form of withholding ‘loser’s consent.’ I remember our own Billy Snedden back in 1973 saying hadn’t lost the election—he has just come second! If our democracy, and our society, are to function well then even those people who think they are intellectually and morally superior have to give in and allow ‘loser’s consent’—admit that they just have to go along with the reality that their candidate has not won. It matters. And the phrase that captures that crucial part of democracy is: ‘loser’s consent.’

Cheddar It all started with ‘The Great Cheese Robbery’. This is the expression coined by Jaimie Oliver in a message to his 10.5 million followers on Instagram. He was alerting them to the fact that more than 22 tons of cheddar had been stolen from a London cheese specialist—Neal’s Yard Dairy. A fraudster turned up, posing as a wholesale distributor for a major French retailer—and went away with 950 wheels of cheddar—reported to be worth almost $590,000. (I had no idea cheese was worth so much!) Jaimie Oliver said this was ‘some of the best cheddar cheese in the world.’ The surprise is that there is market in France for cheddar cheese. When I think of French cheese I think of brie and camembert. And I was once told that the French like their cheese as runny as possible (‘the closer the cheese is to being liquid, the more the French like it’). And yet there’s a market for cheddar in France? Can’t all for Brit expats, surely? The point is that cheddar cheese is the very opposite of runny—specifically a type of hard cheese. But putting such puzzles to one side, the word ‘cheddar’ comes from the name of the name of a village near the Mendip hills in Somerset. Originally the name ‘cheddar’ was only applied to cheese from this particular village but (as the Oxford English Dictionary explains) has now broadened in meaning and covers many different varieties of ‘cheddar-style’ cheese across the world. I am told the cheddar sold in Australia is often soft rather than firm. Not runny, in the French style, but soft. As for myself, I prefer a nice, firm, aged, tasty, crumbly cheddar. (It makes the best toasted cheese sandwiches in the world!) But, back to the word. The village had the name ‘cheddar’ long before they invented this type of cow’s milk cheese. The placename Cheddar comes from the Old English word ceodor, meaning ‘deep dark cavity.’ And the relevance is that this part of Somerset, including the ‘cheddar’ district, is famous for its many caves and gorges. There’s a place called ‘Cheddar Gorge’ located on the edge of the village, which is said to be the largest gorge in the United Kingdom. Cheddar Gorge, including Cox’s Cave, Gough’s Cave and other attractions, has become a tourist destination, drawing about 500,000 visitors a year. That’s the history of the word: from the label for a ‘deep, dark gorge’ to the name of the village at the edge of the gorge, to the name of the cheese they developed (which is now made and consumed worldwide). Sadly, there is only one cheese producer left in the village. But now you know the source of the word, you can be grateful to the villagers every time you have a wonderful, melted, toasted cheese sandwich.

Piccaninny I remember when I was a small child that little toddlers could be called ‘piccaninnies’—which I think was used as a term of affection in those days. And when I questioned my parents about it they said it was the Aboriginal word for a small child. Well, it turns out to be far more complicated than that. For a start the Australian National Dictionary says that ‘piccaninny’ is now an ‘offensive’ term when applied to an Aboriginal child, or to any child. The word is first recorded in the official government publication the Sydney Gazette in 1817—so just 29 years after the First Fleet. The next complication is that ‘piccaninny’ turns out not to be an Aboriginal word at all. In fact, the Oxford English Dictionary says it is probably a borrowing from a Portuguese pidgin word. They say the source is probably the Portuguese word pequenino which meant ‘very small, tiny’ and was used (I would guess as a term of affection) for a small boy. This goes back as far as the 14th century (and in a slightly different form to the 13thcentury). So, how did it end up here as ‘piccaninny’? It seems it became common in the Caribbean (and possibly also in some early settlements in America) as a word for a small child. Probably picked up in those parts of the Caribbean which had been settled earlier by the Portuguese, and borrowed by the English language (which, as I keep saying, borrows words from every language it encounters). Once borrowed it became a common for any native child—especially a very young one. The word was used, in this sense, of Māori children in New Zealand. I suppose it is regarded as ‘offensive’ these days because it is now seen as belittling. Mind you, if I called the toddlers I know ‘piccaninnies’ I wouldn’t feel I was belittling them. But there you. I suppose we’d better steer clear of it from now on. One final note, though. The word was also used figuratively. That very faint, first flush of early light—the dim lighting of the eastern sky just before dawn, was once called ‘piccaninny dawn’ (recorded from 1934), or ‘piccaninny daylight’ (earlier, from 1866) or ‘piccaninny sun’ (from even earlier, 1846) or just ‘piccaninny light’ (from a bit later, 1953). At the other end of the day there was ‘piccaninny twilight’ (meaning the last glow of light). There was also ‘piccaninnyhood’ meaning ‘childhood’ used from around 1912. All of these are now listed as ‘offensive.’ Really? It’s offensive to use a Portuguese pidgin word to describe faint light? Well, I suppose if they say so…

Facepalm One of the small delights of the recent American presidential election campaign was listening to American commentators—because they don’t use the English language in quite the same way we do. And one of the expressions they used was ‘facepalm.’ They would say—when someone was expasperated, or even perhaps embarrassed, that ‘they must be facepalming over that...’ Not, I would think an expression we’d ever hear in Australia? (Mind you, if I have been missing this, and you have heard it, please let me know!) The Urban Dictionary says that ‘face palming’ is ‘The act of slapping your forehead with the palm of your hand in exasperation.’ The Cambridge says something similar: ‘the act of covering your face with your hand because you are embarrassed, annoyed, or disappointed about something.’ While the Oxford English Dictionary tackles the word with its usual precision: ‘An act or instance of bringing the palm of one’s hand to one’s face, typically as an ostentatious and dramatic gesture of dismay, exasperation, embarrassment, etc.’ The Oxford also gives us a date for the expression, telling us it’s first recorded from 1996—and then gives us a related expression, the verb ‘to headdesk.’ This is ‘An act or instance of striking one’s head, often repeatedly, against a desk or table at which one is sitting, typically as an ostentatious or dramatic gesture of frustration, exasperation, dismay, etc.’ And ‘headdesk’ is a bit later, coming from 2002. Another newish one that turned up in the prattle of the American commentators was the word ‘benching.’ This, as far as I could gather, meant taking someone out of an active role in the election campaign. They were (according to these commentators) ‘benched.’ The Cambridge Dictionary says this use of the verb ‘to bench’ someone comes from sport. They write that ‘benching’ can mean: ‘to not allow someone to take part in a sports game or playground activity, as a punishment or because they are injured.’ According to the hyper-hip online Urban Dictionary ‘benching’ can (at least in America) also apply to romantic relationships: ‘Benching is when you start dating someone you think is nice and who has potential, but you're not crazy about them. You don’t know whether to keep dating them, or dump them and move on to the next one. This is where benching happens. Instead of going for either of the above polarized options, you put your date in your mental “maybe” folder and “bench them” so you date around to see what else is out there.’ So, there you are—a few Americanisms to catch up on!

All wet Sydney’s Daily Telegraph newspaper ran a story about great country singer Lee Kernaghan (if you haven’t heard him sing ‘Boys from the Bush’ you should—it’s on YouTube). The story was a short profile of Lee, and in the story the journalist wrote about the singer/song writer’s early career—including recording ‘Boys from the Bush’ in Col Joye’s Glebe studio. Talking about his young self, driving up to Sydney, the Telegraph runs this quote from Lee: ‘I was very wet behind the years (sic), full of wonder and not expecting it to last long.’ Now, I don’t believe Lee Kernaghan really said, ‘wet behind the years.’ He might have done. On the other hand it might be the way a semi-literate journalist transcribed the recorded interview with Lee. Because I suspect that Lee Kernaghan knows as well as you and me that the correct expression is ‘wet behind the ears.’ Are there really young journalists so out of touch with the linguistic traditions of our society that don’t know common old expressions such as ‘wet behind the ears’? Or did the journalist think it might be a bit of a joke to deliberately mangle the idiom? If so, it’s only a very small bit of a joke, and not very funny. But it does make me stop and think—where does this familiar idiom of ‘wet behind the ears’ come from? You know what means of course— ‘naive, inexperienced, immature’ (Oxford English Dictionary) or as the Longman Dictionary of Contemporary English puts it: ‘very young and without much experience of life.’ It’s recorded in English from 1851—so this is not new. And it seems to come from an even older expression in the German language. The earliest form of the German expression has been discovered way back in 1642 (or possibly earlier, says the Oxford). A slightly different formulation is found in German from 1842 (again ‘or earlier’)—and this appears to be the source of the English expression. It seems that ‘wet behind the ears’ comes from an old belief or superstition (in this case, an old German belief or superstition, I suppose) that the area behind the ears is the last part of a newborn’s body to become dry after birth. My memory of newborns is that they are wet all over (from amniotic fluid)—so I’m not sure why you’d focus on the ears (or behind the ears). And surely the midwife or nurse then cleans up the baby all over? Or did midwives (in German in the 1600s) get a bit sloppy and not bother to wipe behind the ears? Or are the tiny little ears of newborns hard to wipe behind? That’s possible, I suppose. At any rate, that is the source of the expression—when correctly expressed, and not mangled as in the Daily Telegraph story about Lee Kernaghan!

AI A Spectator Australia reader (Greg) has asked me to say something about the expression ‘AI’—Artificial Intelligence. The expression is not new—it’s been bandied around by the nerds since 1955 as something they hoped their bits and bytes could pull off. What is new is the capitalisation of the two words, and the abbreviation to AI. That has happened only in the past two years. The raised awareness comes from the launch of ChatGPT in 2022, and its explosive growth in popularity from early 2023. I know the use of the term ‘AI’ is unstoppable—but it’s also wrong. What these machines do is very fast (blindingly fast) calculations (massively complex calculations), but they are not ‘intelligent’ in any coherent sense of that word. Revealingly, dictionaries define ‘AI’ as computers that ‘simulate’ human intelligent. It is a simulation, not the real thing. Real intelligence requires consciousness—self awareness and understanding. Computers do not have this. Yes, I know it looks like. But that’s only because the human beings who wrote their original programs designed them to be deceptive—to look as if they were doing the sort of thinking real human beings do. They don’t. They don’t have the consciousness, the awareness, the understanding that the word ‘intelligence’ covers. That’s because intelligence is something that is peculiar to self-aware beings. Dogs (I was once told) have the intelligence level of a two-year-old human. That means dogs have intelligence that machines can never have. In truth ‘AI’ is a smoke and mirrors job—and illusion, a deception if you like. Machines do not have ‘intelligence.’ The illusion they have, is fostered by another mistaken expression— ‘machine learning.’ They don’t ‘learn’ in any accepted sense of that word—they accumulate (massive reams of data, and code for processing that data). That is accumulation, not ‘learning.’ We have a six-year-old grandson who is learning to read at the moment. What he is doing is something that is self-aware—it is his self, and his awareness of himself, that is working through the business of sound out words and memorising difficult words. It is not a calculating process. It is a conscious, self-aware process. That’s what the word ‘leaning’ means. None of this reality will change the boffins (and the mindless journalists who, unthinkingly, repeated their words). They will go burbling about ‘Artificial Intelligence’ and ‘machine language’. When they do so, you should quietly mutter to yourself ‘abuse of the English language.’

Recrudescence Trump’s triumphant comeback (‘greatest political comeback of all time’—and similar understatements) has had the wordies of the world hunting for the exact label to apply to his performance. One such wordie is Britain’s Susie Dent. If you haven’t come across her before, Susie Dent does the sort of thing I do, but she does it for the British. Her books include a number of the yearly Oxford Language Reports, and as a broadcaster she is the resident word person on the British TV game show Countdown. By the way, her most recent book is a crime novel called Guilty by Definition—set in Oxford in a publishing house that produces a dictionary. Sounds like my sort of book! (In fact, I have a sneaking suspicion that I’m getting this for Christmas. We shall see.) But back to Susie Dent’s word to label Donald Trump’s landslide return to the White House. She chose the word ‘recrudescence.’ The Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines this as meaning, ‘a new outbreak after a period of abatement or inactivity.’ Which certainly defines Trump powering back into the White House—especially after he was written off as a hopeless case only two years ago by the media commentators (who are now scrabbling to correct themselves, ‘Well, what I meant all along was…’) However, there is more to this word ‘recrudescence’ than just a return of something you thought was gone. There’s also a very negative side to it. The Oxford says it means ‘a recurrence of a disease or medical condition, or of an undesirable state of things’—which leads me to think that Susie Dent might be less than entirely enthusiastic about Trump’s triumph. ‘Recrudescence’ is recorded from around 1665 and comes from a Latin source word. From 1810 it was used by doctors for a disease that had made an unwelcome return, and then from 1834 onwards it has been used more widely (for the return of just about anything). So, perhaps ‘comeback’ (the most commonly used word) is better. This is American slang from 1908 meaning ‘a return to a former state of success.’ Yes, I know there are people who have their reservations about Trump, but American voters had to choose between just two candidates—and the alternative was an unthinkable halfwit who couldn’t frame a complete thought or finish a sentence.

Acrasia I have written before about I how love to discover unfamiliar words in old books. In this case, I discovered this word in an old (1928) detective novel Footsteps at the Lock by the brilliant Ronald Knox. Here’s the sentence in which the word appears: ‘…Dr Simmonds… had made a life-long study of acrasia.’ Of what, I ask myself? Acrasia? What on earth is that? Now, you may be way ahead of me here, and this may be a word you use often. However, I had to do some searching. It turns out that ‘acrasia’ is recorded in English from 1590, coming from a post-classical Latin source word, and means ‘Intemperance, excess… irregular or disorderly behaviour’ (Oxford English Dictionary). And in the context of my book that makes sense. The word is applied to a young man, Derek Burtell, who knows he is due to inherit a fortune when he turns 25, and so makes no effort in life—just becomes a wastrel, a lazy, partying, drunkard. That certainly fits with ‘acrasia’ doesn’t it? (And Derek Burtell quickly becomes a murder victim in the book!) However, it gets a bit complicated. (Nothing in the English language is ever easy, is it?) Behind the post-classical Latin source word is an ancient Greek word akrasia—from which, it seems, we get our word ‘crater’ (a huge cavity). Well, I suppose someone who is living an intemperate life of excess might be said to have (figuratively) fallen into a crater, their life has plunged into a deep abyss. But it doesn’t stop there. From 1806 ‘acrasia’ started to be used in a psychological sense, meaning ‘Lack of physical or… mental strength; weakness of will… the state of tending to act against one’s better judgement’ (Oxford English Dictionary). This problem (the weakness of will power) was explored by Aristotle in his Nicomachean Ethics. The same notion was used by the great Oxford philosopher R. M. Hare in his book The Language of Morals (although he spelled it with a K as ‘akrasia’). I suppose the two different meanings of ‘acrasia’ might fit together—if you suffer from ‘weakness of will’ you might very well end up living a damaging, self-indulgent, intemperate life? So, there you are—a new weird word to add to your already vast vocabulary. And I suppose ‘acrasia’ might be applied to modern politics. Those political leaders who are always chasing the 24-hour news cycle and spouting ill-thought-out grabs to TV news channels might be suffering from a kind of weakness of will, a sort of intemperance, that lacks self-discipline? It’s possible, I suppose.

Wisdom Recently a friend of mine told me that what he needs at the moment is ‘wisdom’ (because of the situation he finds himself in just now). So I decided to explore the history and meaning of this word ‘wisdom.’ I quickly discovered that I needed to shift my focus to the shorter root word ‘wise’ because the ‘-dom’ part of ‘wisdom’ just means ‘domain.’ In other words, ‘wisdom’ is the domain of the ‘wise.’ So we have to take a step back and look at this word ‘wise.’ To start with, it’s very old. ‘Wise’ is recorded in Old English—so it has been part of our language from the very beginning. It comes from a Germanic source word (we know this because there are cognate words in other old Germanic languages—and even related words in modern Dutch and German). So, what does it mean to be ‘wise’? The Oxford English Dictionary gives this (very wise!) definition: ‘Having or exercising sound judgement or discernment; capable of judging truly concerning what is right or fitting, and disposed to act accordingly; having the ability to perceive and adopt the best means for accomplishing an end; characterized by good sense and prudence.’ That’s a bit of a mouthful, but what it means is clear enough: there is a practical aspect to ‘wise’ that makes it different from (and more than) mere knowledge. All the dictionaries I consulted agree that being ‘wise’ involves doing something: making good judgements, or making good decisions. Both ‘judge’ and ‘decide’ are verbs, action words, so ‘wisdom’ shows itself in how people act—what judgements or decisions they make. There it a whole category of writing in the Bible called ‘Wisdom Literature.’ And when I consult The New Bible Dictionary it tells me that ‘wisdom’ in the Bible is always intensely practical, and concerns human skills and abilities. ‘Wisdom’ is the main theme of the book of Proverbs in the Bible, where we told (for example): ‘do not let wisdom and understanding out of your sight, preserve sound judgment and discretion’ (that’s from Proverbs chapter 3 verse 21). When I offered my friend some advice, he said that what I told him was ‘pragmatic.’ Well, that’s the whole point. What makes it ‘wisdom’ is that it is practical, it is ‘pragmatic.’ So, asking what is the wise thing to do, is really asking ‘what is the common sense, practical, pragmatic thing to do.’ And I wish you (and my friend) all the ‘wisdom’ in the world.

Discover Did Captain Cook ‘discover’ Australia. According to The Daily Telegraph journalist Stan Grant features in a new documentary that aims to “challenge the false narrative of Captain Cook” by celebrating the history between Muslims and Aborigines in the pre-colonial period. The director of this documentary, Sheik Wesam Charkawi, is quoted as saying: ‘Australia was not “discovered.” Aboriginal people are the world’s oldest continuing culture.’ This claim has been made before (sometimes by the Hard Left and sometimes by Aboriginal activists) that Captain Cook did not ‘discover’ Australia. Well, what can we learn by looking closely at the language? The word ‘discover’ came into English in the 1300s from an Anglo-Norman / Middle French word meaning ‘to expose to sight, to make known, to reveal, to divulge.’ Behing this is a post-classical Latin word discooperire meaning ‘to remove the covering from.’ You can even see this in the English version of the word—there are two parts to it: ‘dis-cover’ meaning to ‘dis-’ or remove the ‘cover’ that is obscuring out view. In modern English ‘discover’ is often used to mean ‘to find for the first time’ (Cambridge Dictionary).  But it can also be used to mean ‘find something you did not know about before’ (Collins Dictionary). Obviously Aborigines living on this continent knew it was here. But Cook didn’t know—so for him it was a ‘discovery’ and this is what it should be called. By mapping the east coast of Australia (and Cook was an expert, and highly accurate, navigator and map-maker) he ‘removed the covers’ from this part of the world. Aboriginal tribes had no idea of the full extent of the east coast of Australia—they only knew their own tradition hunting and gathering territory through which they moved nomadically over the seasons. Cook’s careful cartography of the east coast of Australia revealed (‘took the covers off’) that long coastline—he ‘discovered it.’ Recently I ‘discovered’ a French TV crime series. Here it is called ‘The Paris Murders’ but its original French title was Profilage (‘profiling’). It was an excellent series, so I’ve been sharing my ‘discovery’ with others. But when I ‘discovered’ the series that doesn’t mean no one else knew about. Perhaps millions of French viewers had already seen it. I wasn’t the first. But I still ‘discovered’ it for myself—uncovering something I (and most other Australians) didn’t know about. Cook did the same: he ’discovered’ Australia. Anyone who denies this is abusing the English language.

Furphy & Galah In Australia a false or unreliable rumour is a furphy. The earliest recorded use is 1915, and, indeed, it seems to come from the diggers of the First World War. The firm of J. Furphy and Sons operated a foundry at Shepparton in the late 1800s. One of their products was a water cart. These water carts were used by the Australian Army in World War I and (inevitably) became the place where diggers gathered and gossiped. The name Furphy was prominently printed on the back of each water cart, and became the name for the unreliable gossip exchanged there. When soldiers start swapping stories – especially about what the brass have got planned for them, where they’ll be shifted next, and when they’ll get some leave – they are bound to get it wrong: and, hence, to spread furphies. The word scuttlebutt has an identical origin. It means much the same (“idle gossip”). On a sailing ship the scuttlebutt was the cask (or butt) of drinking water stored on the deck near the scuttle (or hatchway) where sailors gathered to exchange gossip. Remarkably parallel stories behind those two words: scuttlebutt and furphy. By the way, each Furphy water cart had the following words of wisdom on the side: “Good, better, best: never let it rest, until your good is better – and your better best.” That’s the kind of motto our grandparents lived by (and it didn’t do them any harm, either). And while we’re talking about Aussie words, how about ‘galah’? Officially a galah is a grey-backed, pink-fronted cockatoo. As such the word galah comes from the Aboriginal name for this bird (from the Yuwaalaray language). But galah has been extended to become an Australianism for a fool, a nincompoop, a simpleton, a drongo, dill, drip, dope, mug or boofhead—perhaps from the thought that such a person is a birdbrain. (Australian English seems to have more words to describe stupidity than any other language on earth. Why, I don’t know.) Then, from the noise that galahs make when they flock together we also get the expression galah session – meaning a private conversation, especially between isolated women on inland stations via outback radio. And there used to be another expression galah pie, which was an old country dish much favoured by station hands and drovers.

Blackwashing ‘Blackwashing’ is an obvious play on the more familiar ‘whitewashing’—which has been around since 1703 with the meaning of covering up blemishes and concealing faults or errors. I think we need to start using ‘blackwashing’ to describe what is being done to Australian history. I say this because of the attempts to establish something called ‘Truth-Telling.’ As you know there is a new premier in Queensland, David Crisafulli, and, according to the newspapers, he has been attacked by Joshua Creamer, the chairman of Queensland’s Truth-Telling and Healing Inquiry. Crisafulli has ordered an immediate end to their hearings. The Inquiry has held five public hearings since it launched in September. Mr Crisafulli says that instead his government will focus on Indigenous home ownership and education. There is a problem with this innocent sounding label of ‘Truth-Telling’—because it doesn’t mean telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth (as per the oath in courts of law). Rather, ‘Truth-Telling’ means a highly selective version of ‘truth.’ To explain what I mean by that, here’s the Oxford English Dictionary’s explanation. ‘Truth-Telling’: is ‘Recognition or acknowledgement of historical injustices affecting Australian Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people following the colonization of Australia, and re-evaluation of the impact of the discrimination and often violent treatment they have faced since that time.’ The term ‘Truth-Telling’ has been used with this narrow meaning since 1988. Hence, my use of the expression ‘blackwashing.’ In the past Australia’s history may have been ‘whitewashed’—meaning faults and blemishes (especially in the treatment of Aboriginal people) may been played down. Although, to be honest, I believe the best of our historians have never done that sort of ‘whitewashing.’ As an example, think of Geoffrey Blainey and his classic book The Triumph of the Nomad. However, even if ‘whitewashing’ did happen it is no balance to leave out half the story and only tell the worst bits. Because that’s what ‘blackwashing’ is. It is an attempt to ignore (or, worse, deny) everything colonialism gave to Aboriginal people. They live today in a modern, advanced economy that their own stone age ancestors could never have given them. To ‘blackwash’ how advancement and development came to Australia is deceptively misleading. Or am I being unfair? Am I missing something here?

Retail politics Over recent years the expression ‘retail politics’ has become very popular. Commentators have liked to label some politicians as being good ‘retail politicians.’ And what we have just seen in America is the triumph of (arguably) the greatest ‘retail politician’ of all time—Donald Trump. So, what does the expression mean? The Collins Dictionary defines ‘retail politics’ as: ‘the practice of a politician soliciting in person for votes from the public.’ In other words, ‘retailing’ involves dealing with individual customers. And a ‘retail politician’ is able to speak (even on mass media) in the sort of plain spoken, down-to-earth, common-sense language that each voter feels is addressed to them personally. Probably the greatest ‘retail politician’ Australia has produced was Bob Hawke. When we saw him on TV he seemed to have the ‘plain people of Australia’ touch that spoke to ordinary folk. It’s often said that the best ‘retail politician’ in the current parliament is Barnaby Joyce, for the same reason—he uses vivid, down-to-earth language that connects with ordinary Aussies. This expression, ‘retail politics’ is older than I would have guessed. It was coined as long ago as 1901. But when it was first coined it had a slightly different meaning. As the Oxford says, originally it meant: ‘a style of political campaigning in which the candidate targets voters on a small-scale or individual basis, typically by attending small meetings and local events.’ And, the Oxford adds, when it was first coined ‘retail politics’ was intended as an insulting term. Well, times have changed. We live in an age that wants the common touch and plain language and the sort of common sense that ordinary people can relate to. In the 21st century ‘retail politics’ appears to be the sort of thing that wins elections. And that is what we have seen in the triumphant political comeback of Donald Trump. He spoke at every rally in the sort of plain language that the ordinary people of America could understand. The term ‘retail politics’ first appeared in America, in the Chicago Tribune newspaper, in September in 1901. And given the rise and rise of Donald Trump it’s now an expression we all need to take into account.

President It’s appropriate that on this American voting day I look at some political terms. And Mike has written to ask about three such terms. Here’s his email: ‘I was wondering what was the origin of the word “President”? While on a political theme, what is the origin of “Senate”? Is the Roman Senate the first use of the term? If so, what was the translation or derivation of the word? And, lastly, while pondering the Senate, why are Senate committees called “Estimates” in the Australian Federal Parliament?’ Okay, let’s take a look at those three terms Mike asks about. The first, and the most appropriate for today, is the word ‘president.’ This word is recorded in English from around 1382. It came into English from Anglo-Norman and Middle French, behind which lies a classical Latin word. ‘President’ comes from the verb ‘to preside’ (that is to lead, or rule over, a meeting). In turn, ‘preside’ comes from the Latin prefix ‘pre-’ meaning ‘before and sedēre meaning ‘to sit.’ A president presides over a meeting by being seated before (in front of) the meeting. In the ancient world teaching or leading positions always involved being seated. That’s why we speak about the ‘throne’ (the seat) as the symbol of monarchy, and why professors have a ‘chair’ at universities. This notion is also the source of our word ‘cathedral’—meaning a church containing the sear (in Latin the cathedra) of a bishop. So, the person seated at the head of a meeting was in the position of authority over that meeting—hence the ‘president.’ In answer to Mike’s next question—the word ‘senate’ does come from ancient Rome (where is was the name of the governing body). It has been recorded in English from around 1275 (possibly earlier). ‘Senate’ also comes from (obviously) Latin and is related to our word ‘senior’—the Roman Senate was originally ‘a council of old men.’ Finally (to complete Mike’s little list) ‘estimates’ of government expenditure are referred to Senate committees as part of the annual budget cycle. This opportunity to examine the operations of government plays a key role in the parliamentary scrutiny of the executive. ‘Estimate’ means ‘approximate value.’ It comes from a classical Latin source word related to our word ‘esteem.’ So in our senate the ‘estimates’ committee is responsible for seeing that we are getting proper value for our tax dollars. And many thanks to Mike for his list of words that are all appropriate for today!

Word cloud A ‘word cloud’ is an expression used by public opinion pollsters to describe a particular method they use when conducting polls. ‘Word cloud’ has been around since 2006 and is defined as: ‘An image composed of words used most commonly or prominently in a particular context or field, in which the size of each word indicates its relative frequency or importance’ (Oxford English Dictionary). You’ve quite possibly seen a ‘word cloud’ on the web sometime, without knowing it was called a ‘word cloud.’ It would have been a page with random words, randomly scattered, some small, some large—clustering around a range of ideas and labels. James Campbell has reported on just such a ‘word cloud’ poll conducted by GXO/J. L. Partners comparing Anthony Albanese and Peter Dutton. He says that after studying the ‘word cloud’ the word that people were most likely to associate with Dutton was ‘strong’ followed by ‘leader’ as their second choice and ‘arrogant’ as their third choice. Campbell notes that ‘arrogant’ is falling in prominence in these ‘word cloud’ surveys about Dutton’s leadership. He then adds: ‘It isn’t clear to me either that arrogance is necessarily that bad or indeed surprising an attribute to be held in that combination.’ He then reports on the ‘word cloud’ result for Prime Minister Albanese—and says that in this latest study the three most popular words associated with the Prime Minister are ’weak’, ‘incompetent’ and ‘useless.’ And Campbell concludes, ‘The trend is not Labor’s friend.’ Elsewhere in the same paper there was a comparison between Albanese and John Howard asking the question: how would Howard have dealt with the airline upgrade debacle. And the answer was: he would have acted quickly and decisively and just banned all MPs from accepting any upgrades from any airline. Does that sound to you to be in character for John Howard? It certainly would have defused the whole thing and made the problem go away. Instead of which it hangs around like a bad smell—and voters are still waiting for strong, decisive action from our Prime Minister. All of which has shown up in the latest ‘word cloud’ opinion poll.

More WOTY Yesterday I unpacked the first of the (many) Word of the Year announcements—the one from Collins Dictionaries declaring ‘brat’ to be their WOTY. (If you missed the newsletter on ‘Brat’ go to the history page of Ozwords.com.au—you’ll find it there, along with lots of other previous language columns.) But although ‘brat’ was the winner—it wasn’t the only word on Collins’ list of what they see as being the big words of 2024. The sad news is that many of these were chosen from the slang of Gen Z. Why? I hear you ask? Why not choose a generation that cares a bit more about the beauty of the English language? Ah, well, I must admit that some of the Gen Z slang is creative and quirky (even if it is, as the same time, asinine). Here are some of the words on the Collins short list:

Looksmaxxing—the Collins people say this is British slang, and means attempting to maximise the attractiveness of one’s physical appearance. The Urban Dictionary records it from 2021. And, yes, I see from the look on your face that this is an ugly, unnecessary, and badly constructed word.

Rawdogging—this one, says the Collins means launching into any activity or undertaking without forethought, preparation, support or equipment. Which seems to define not just this word, but a whole generation (or am I letting my grumpy old man show through?)

Yapping—which is something only your little fox terrier used to do (at least it alerted you to someone being at the front door!) But now it means (the Collins tells us) ‘talking at length, especially about inconsequential matters.’ And the Urban Dictionary has a follow-up expression: ‘post yap clarity’—which they say means ‘A feeling a person may feel after yapping for too long—the combined sentiment of disappointment, cringe, self-consciousness, and general uneasiness.’ Which serves them right for behaving like a fox terrier!

Delulu—this (the Collinsexplains) means being utterly mistaken or unrealistic in one’s ideas or expectations. (Apparently a twist on ‘deluded.’)

Era—once meant a major period in human history, but now (thanks to Taylor Swift) Gen Z thinks ‘era’ means any short phase in your life. You remember binging on Crown of Thorns? Well that was back in your ‘crown of thorns era.’ Silly, isn’t it?

Romantasy—this is a ‘portmanteau’ word: one which packs two words into a small package. This means a literary genre that combines romantic fiction with fantasy. (Apparently there’s a popular market for this stuff.)

Well, there you are. That’s probably told you more about the slang of Gen Z than you ever really needed to know!