Kel's previous Ozwords of the day...

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Canberra Brian Kennedy, in his book on Australian place names, says Canberra comes from an Aboriginal word said to mean “meeting place.” But Shane Mortimer, an Aboriginal elder of the Ngambri people, says the place and the people (the earliest inhabitants) shared the same name (in the same way that someone who is a “German” speaks a language called “German”). Hence the area where Canberra now stands was originally called “Ngambri.” But the new settlers in the 1820s found this hard to pronounce so they anglicised it into “Kamberri.” And that’s the name that appears on documents from 1832. Then in 1913 the wife of the then Governor, Lady Denman, declared the new capital of Australia to be called Canberra. From “Ngambri” to “Kamberri” to Canberra – that’s the journey. As for meaning, “Ngambri” meant the cleavage between a woman’s breasts because the land lies between what are now called Mount Ainslie and Black Mountain. While we are on the subject: there is a related expression—Canberra bubble: This means the idea that federal politicians, bureaucrats, and political journalists are living in a self-obsessed world, closed off from the rest of Australia (the ‘real’ Australia). This expression ‘Canberra bubble’ first appeared in 2001 but the attitude it names has probably been around for as long as there has been a federal parliamentary press gallery. The use of this expression increased from 2015. ‘Canberra bubble’ was used by former Prime Minister Scott Morrison to help define his politics and to distance himself from the political turmoil of 2018 and the years preceding that (Turnbull getting rid of Abbott and then Turnbull himself being removed). Here is a quote from Scott Morrison on the subject: “The Canberra bubble is what happens down here, when people get all caught up with all sorts of gossip and rubbish, and that’s probably why most of you switch off any time you hear a politician talk.” This expression “Canberra bubble” was chosen by the Australian National Dictionary as their Word of the Year back in 2018.

Settler According to The Daily Mail Macquarie University students have been asked to complete learning modules describing non-Indigenous students as ‘settlers’ and ‘guests.’ The module reportedly says: ‘If you are living in Australia and are not an Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islander, you are a settler and therefore a guest.’ Yannick Thoraval, a creative writing teacher at RMIT University, told Daily Mail Australia the language is unnecessarily ‘accusatory.’ Ben Fordham said, ‘I don't care if you only became an Aussie last week, this is your country too, you are not a guest.’ Libertarian Member of the NSW Legislative Council John Ruddick said the practice was likely widespread across the country’s tertiary institutions, claiming they are ‘trying to enforce groupthink.’ Whatever the rights and wrongs of this might be, my concern is language. And claiming that all non-Aboriginal Australians are ‘settlers’ is linguistic nonsense—it is an abuse of language. The word ‘settler’ is recorded in English from 1598, drawing on the verb ‘to settle’ and has a range of meanings. From 1653 ‘settler’ has been used to mean ‘A person who moves (typically as part of a group or community) to take up residence in a country or territory where he or she did not previously live’ (Oxford English Dictionary). So, is that true of you? Or of me? Not knowing your story, I can say that in my case I didn’t ‘settle’ here, I was born here. And so were both my parents, and both my grandparents. If you want to abuse the language by claiming that someone born here is a ‘settler’ that is the sort of nonsense that needs to be knocked very quickly on the head. Telling me that I’m a ‘settler’ is like telling me I’m ‘Chinese’—I’m neither, and those sorts of claims are nonsensical. I’ve said before in these columns that it’s important for language to reflect reality. Once language is disconnected from reality then it is emptied of meaning. To call someone a ‘settler’ is to claim that they have moved into this part of the world, and have no claim on this part of the world.’ But since Australia is a migrant nation that whole concept simply cannot be true. We accept people who come here from around the world and take out Australian citizenship. They have not been ‘settled’ they have been ‘naturalized’ as citizens. Strange as it may seem, these odd modules in some universities seem to be deliberately telling lies. To call people ‘settlers’ who are (literally) not settlers is to be untruthful. And at universities, that is very sad. 

Preventive V preventative I well remember that some years ago in my office at 2GB I used the word ‘preventative’ and my producer immediately snapped at me: ‘there’s no such word. You should say “preventive”—it has three syllables, not four.’ Well, was she right? A simple dictionary search shows that she was not. Both ‘preventive’ and ‘preventative’ are found in all the major dictionaries. And both have the same meaning: ‘intended to stop something you do not want to happen, such as illness, from happening’ (Longman Dictionary of Contemporary English). Well, then—is one older than the other? Is one a corruption of the other? Again we run into a problem. The shorter version ‘preventive’ is recorded from 1626 while the one with the extra syllable, ‘preventative’, appears in print from 1655. That is a very short period of time in terms of the thousand-year history of the English language. Which means they were both born at pretty much the same time. So (next question): is there a difference in usage? Looking at the citations in the Oxford English Dictionary I would say not. Although the Grammarphobia website says that: ‘Searches with Google’s Ngram viewer, which compares terms in digitized books, indicates that “preventive” is the preferred adjective (as in ‘preventive measures’) while “preventative” is the preferred noun (‘a reliable preventative’).’ Although, I should point out, that this is just a usage habit and not a built-in difference between the two words. That hasn’t stopped some people from calling ‘preventative’ a ‘corrupt form’ (Garner’s Modern English Usage, 4th edition). But as we’ve seen, historically that is simply not correct. On the other hand, there are people, like my old producer, who think that ‘preventative’ is some sort of howler. Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary of English Usage says, “both words have been around for over 300 years, and both have had regular use by reputable writers.” So there! Although the Merriam-Webster people go on to offer this warning: go ahead and use the longer term “if you decide you like the sound of the extra syllable and are willing to brave possible criticism.” So, what do I say? Well, first—both are okay, so you should never correct someone for using either version. Second, I find the short version (‘preventive’) sounds to my ears almost slurred and not firm and clear enough, while the longer version (‘preventative’) to my ear makes a stronger statement. That said—both are fine, so use whichever one you wish.

FOMO and FOMBN We have all seen those folk who can’t take their eyes of the little screen of their smart phone. They sit in the café or walk down the street oblivious to all around them, simply glued to the screen. This phenomenon has been given a name—FOMO (it’s usually written in all-caps). That stands for ‘Fear of Missing Out.’ It’s recorded from 2004. It first appeared as an inventive colloquialism in America—in fact, in California, to be precise. Somehow that’s not entirely unsurprising, isn’t it? And the point must be made that this is a true acronym, not just an initialism. It is pronounced as if it’s a whole word: FOMO. My pronunciation guide would be: FOH-MOH. We live in a connected world. Unlike our grandparents (and even our parents) it is possible for us to be ‘in touch’ all the time. And that possibility, it seems, as bred this need—which, in turn, has bred this new (or still newish) word. Now there’s a brand-new variation on it FOMBN. This one has been coined by my employers at Sky News Australia, and those letters stand for the phrase: ‘Fear of Missing Breaking News.’ Once again, this is an acronym (not an initialism) so it’s pronounced as a single word. My pronunciation guide for this would be: FOMM-bin. And what fear is it (exactly) that this new coinage captures? I suppose for those of us who are news junkies (and that tends to be most of us as we get older) we don’t want to miss an important news item—a shift or change in our world. I remember that my wife and I were travelling in England when Tony Abbot was (as they say) ‘stabbed in the back’ and replaced as prime minister by Malcolm Turnbull. So we were out of touch with things in Australia. It dd make the news in Britain—but not as the splash lead that it was in Australia. When we first heard the news we were shocked. This couldn’t possibly be true, could it? Was the Liberal Party really following Labor down the dangerous road of chucking out a first term prime minister? Well, it turned out that they were, and they did. When a story like that breaks (or any big story, really) those of us who take an interest in, and care about, this world don’t want to miss out. We don’t want to come into conversations where everyone else knows what has happened except us. Hence, this new acronym FOMBN. (And yes, I know the next world, and the next life, matter more—but we have to take an interest in, and responsibility for, this one for as long as we are here!)

Identity politics Joseph has written to ask me a question I have been asked before, but that continues to turn up: ‘What is “identity politics”? (he writes) I keep coming across this term, but I can’t work out exactly what it means.’ Clearly I have failed to explain this—otherwise the same question would not keep coming up! Sorry, about that. I will try again. First, the history. The term ‘identity politics’ is recorded from 1973. In that year a book was published called 1984 Revisited, Prospects for American Politics. It was edited by Robert Paul Wolff, and contained an essay by Todd Gitlin which used the expression ‘identity politics’ for the first time in print. (Tod Gitlin, 1943-2022, was a sociologist and a left-wing political activist.) Here is the shortest definition I can think of for this puzzling expression: ‘identity politics’ means ‘political activity on behalf of an identified group.’ It embodies the notion that what matters is group identity. Identity politics says that group identity matters (a) more than the wider community, and (b) more than the individual. Shortly after the term was first coined we find it being used (in 1977) for political activity on behalf of feminists; then in 1979 for political activity on behalf of the disabled and former mental patients; in 1989 for political activity on behalf of black feminists, and so on. That is ‘identity politics’—political activity on behalf of a group—giving group identity priority of both the wider community and over the individual. To give a concrete example: the referendum on The Voice was about ‘identity politics’—it was about political activity on behalf an identified group: in that case, Indigenous Australians. There are problems with ‘identity politics.’ (1) It is mentally lazy. It lumps every member of an identified group together regardless of how much or how little they really have in common. For example, The Voice assumed that 800,000 Indigenous Australians had (broadly) the same needs and required the same political “voice.” It ignored large (and clear) differences between successful professional Indigenous Australians and those living in remote communities. ‘Identity politics’ makes the mentally lazy assumption that the political needs within all identity groups (women, gays, disabled, homeless etc) are highly similar and ignores wide disparities within each group (and never looks the evidence to see what is really the case). (2) It disparages the wider community—refusing to consider how action for one identified group might have an impact on others outside the group, and how different groups interact together to form that larger ‘patchwork quilt’ which is the whole community. (3) It disparages the individual by having no place to consider the differences between individuals within an identified group: different gifts and skills, different life experiences, different levels of energy and enterprise, different moral and ethical standards and behaviour. Those three problems are clearly insurmountable—and that makes ‘identity politics’ nothing more than divisive tribalism. So, Joseph—have I done better this time? Has that helped shed some light on ‘identity politics’?

Governmentium A reader (Lillian) has sent me this information about a brand-new word—and I thought you’d like me to share this with you. Here’s what Lillian sent:

Scientific research has led to the discovery of the heaviest element yet known. The new element, governmentium (Gv), has one neutron, 25 assistant neutrons, 88 deputy neutrons, and 198 assistant deputy neutrons, giving it an atomic mass of 312.

These 312 particles are held together by forces called morons, which are surrounded by vast quantities of lepton-like particles called peons. Since governmentium has no electrons, it is inert; however, according to the team of research scientists in Budapest, it can be detected because it impedes every reaction with which it comes into contact.

Governmentium has a normal half-life of two to six years. It does not decay, but instead undergoes a reorganisation in which a portion of the assistant neutrons and deputy neutrons exchange places.

In fact, governmentium’s mass will actually increase over time, since each reorganisation will cause more morons to become neutrons, forming isodopes. This characteristic of moron promotion leads some scientists to believe that governmentium is formed whenever morons reach a critical concentration. This hypothetical quantity is referred to as critical morass.

When catalysed with money, governmentium becomes administratium, an element that radiates just as much energy as governmentium since it has half as many peons but twice as many morons.

There you are—a new word to add to your vocabulary. Or is it just leg-pull? Really? Surely not! This is serious research about the technical language of political philosophy. And it seems to embody the political philosophy of Mark Steyn—a Canadian author and a radio, television, and on-line presenter. He once famously said that his whole political philosophy could be summed up in just one sentence: ‘Almost all governments get almost everything wrong almost all the time.’ And this has now been captured in a single word—governmentium. Sadly this seems to capture our frequent experience, doesn’t it?

Wodehouse words P G. Wodehouse lived from 1881 to 1975. That means that this year, 2025, is the 50th anniversary of his demise. And we can’t let that pass without saluting this master of the English language. Wodehouse was an English comic writer who created such immortal characters as Bertie Wooster and his manservant Jeeves, the inhabitants of Blandings Castle in Shropshire, Pongo Twistleton, Gussy Fink-Nottle, Monty Bodkin, Bingo Little and the members of the Drones Club. He also gave us Mr Mulliner and the Oldest Member—arguably the world’s greatest storytellers. His short stories and his novels are brilliantly funny and witty, and his plots are craftily constructed architectural masterpieces. But his real brilliance was in his use of words. The language of Wodehouse is constantly surprising, funny, clever, inventive and just plain brilliant. In one story in which Beach (the butler at Blandings Castle) takes offence, Wodehouse writes: ‘Ice formed on the butler’s upper slopes.’ Isn’t that a breath-taking use of words? In the Bertie Wooster stories the villains are always his aunts (who are trying make Bertie do something he doesn’t want to do, such as giving out the prizes at the Sunday School picnic). In one novel two of Bertie’s aunts are on the front lawn of a grand country house, and Wodehouse describes it as ‘Aunt calling to aunt, like mastodons bellowing across a primeval swamp.’ On one occasion Bertie wants to get in to see an important businessman, but his way is barred by a stern secretary. Wodehouse writes: ‘She was one of those secretaries only Genghis Khan would dare to cross. And he only on one of his better days.’ Wodehouse dedicated his book of golf stories The Heat of a Goof: ‘To my daughter Leonora, without whose never-failing sympathy and encouragement this book would have been finished in half the time.’ Novelist Evelyn Waugh (Brideshead Revisited) called Wodehouse ‘the master’ on the grounds that he had an average of two completely original similes on every page. The Cambridge History of English Literature says that Wodehouse had: ‘a gift for highly original aptness of phrase that almost suggests a poet struggling for release among the wild extravagances of farce.’ Novelist and biographer A. N. Wilson writes that ‘Although each short story and novel by Wodehouse is a perfect artefact, each one is also a liberation of the spirit.’ If you have never read Wodehouse I will make this bold claim: everyone who loves and treasures the wonderful words of the English language will be delighted by Wodehouse. Alright, off to your local library then, and see what Wodehouse you can find.

Grub I’ve been asked why food is called ‘grub.’ This is certainly common, and I’m sure all of us have referred to food as ‘grub’ at one time or another. But the story behind the word is anything but simple. It turns out that ‘grub’ entered the English language around 1400 as a verb meaning ‘to dig.’ Behind it is a common Germanic word with exactly that meaning. In the days of Old English it would have been written as grybban. The word ‘grave’ comes from that same source, and for the same reason—it involves digging. I seem to remember my later father-in-law, a farmer, talking about ‘grubbing up weeds’ from the paddock—so that the verb ‘to grub’ (‘to dig’) still exists. By the way, when we call witchety grubs ‘grubs’ we are using the same word—since they are found, or under, the ground. And it has formed some compound nouns— ‘grub stake’ is an American expression for the amount of money a prospector will need to go out into the wilderness looking for gold (or whatever). And that compound means ‘food money’. The ‘stake’ part comes from gambling—it means an amount you put at risk. And if you supply ‘food money’ to a prospector (the deal being you share in what he finds) and he then finds nothing, you’ve lost your ‘stake.’ There was also ‘grub street’ which the great Samuel Johnson in his 1755 dictionary says, was the name of a street near Moorfields in London (now called Milton Street), ‘much inhabited (says Johnson) by writers of small histories, dictionaries, and temporary poems.’ It was inhabited, in other words, by hack writers who churned out their stuff to keep food on the table. (This sort of writing was later called writing ‘potboilers’—hack work designed to keep the pot on the stove boiling, and the writer fed.) But why was ‘grub’ (a word for digging) ever applied to food? One suggestion is that—as anyone with a vegetable garden will tell you—a lot of our food is actually dug out of the ground. And that may be the source. Although I quite like the alternative suggestion—that when we eat we ‘dig in’ to our plate of food. We’ve all been told, at some point in your lives, to ‘come on, dig in, before dinner gets cold.’ There was even a rhyming version: two, four, six, eight, dig in, don’t wait!

Chutzpah Let’s start with the pronunciation. The Oxford English Dictionary says we should pronounce this word as HOOT-spuh—and that is certainly the most common English pronunciation. However, this is a word that has come into English from Yiddish—so there’s room for discussion (or debate!) about how we should say it. Leo Rosten, in his delightful book The Joys of Yiddish says we should say this as KHOOTS-pah. And he adds these explanatory notes: ‘rattle the kh around with fervour; rhymes with Foot-spa. Do not prounounce the ch as in choo-choo, but as the German ch in Acht! Or the Scottish in loch.’ So we start our exploration of this word with two alternative pronunciations (personally I think you are safer, when speaking English, to say HOOT-spuh). And what about the meaning? Same thing—two alternative suggestions! According to Leo Rosten (and many others) this is a negative word meaning ‘gall, brazen effrontery, incredible guts; presumption-plus-arrogance such as no other word, and no other language, can do justice to.’ That is certainly the meaning in the original Yiddish. Leo Rosten says that a brazen example of ‘chutzpah’ is the man who murders his mother and his father and then throws himself on the mercy of the court on the grounds that he is an orphan! But has the word taken on a different colouring in English? Perhaps. The Merriam-Webster Third International Unabridged defines ‘chutzpah’ as ‘supreme self-confidence’ which certainly looks far more positive, doesn’t it? The Oxford says ‘chutzpah’ turns up in English from the middle of the 1800s, and it then agrees with Leo Rosten about this being a negative word. The Oxford defines ‘chutzpah’ as ‘brazen impudence, gall, audacity’—which certainly looks negative to me. So, does Donald Trump have ‘chutzpah’—and, if so, is that a good thing or a bad thing? Wikipedia decides to have a bob-each-way when it says: ‘The word derives from the Hebrew ḥuṣpāh meaning “insolence”, “cheek” or “audacity.” Thus, the original Yiddish word has a strongly negative connotation, but the form which entered English as a Yiddishism in American English has taken on a broader meaning… In American English the word is sometimes interpreted—particularly in business parlance—as meaning the amount of courage, mettle or ardour that an individual has.’ I have often heard it used as an expression of surprise—by someone startled that so-and-so would try to get away with this. And that suggests a level of self-confidence that is either unexpected or unjustified. Does that describe Trump? We’ll have to wait and see how the next four years pan out!

Dude Is it just me, or is the word ‘dude’ becoming more common? These days it is an American expression roughly similar to the Aussie words ‘bloke’ or ‘mate’—any man can be called a ‘bloke’ in Australia or a ‘dude’ in America. And, sadly, I seem to be hearing the American word more often here in Australia! But where does ‘dude’ come from? Michael Quinion has written about this at some length in one of his books, and there he offers a range of possible sources for the word. He floats the possibility that it may come from the older word ‘duds’ for clothes, but dismisses out of hand the suggestion from Daniel Cassidy that it might have come from a bit of Irish slang. Here’s what we do know. ‘Dude’ is recorded from 1883. It originally didn’t mean just any man, or bloke, or chap, or fellow (as it does now)—rather in the earliest days it meant a young man who was very fashion conscious and something of a dandy. For that reason both Michael and I agree that ‘dude’ probably started as an abbreviation of the middle word in the song title ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy.’ The song was well known and very popular. So, if some young bloke was a bit of a ‘dandy’ then you could call him, as a joke, a ‘Yankee doodle dandy’. But that’s three words and six syllables—too long for a slang word, hence it was shortened to ‘doodle’ and then that was cut from two syllables to one and became ‘dude’ (which, with an American accent, is pronounced ‘dood’—in fact, ‘dood’ was an alternative early spelling before the ‘dude’ spelling caught on). As for the song that was the source of this—‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’ seems to be an adaption of an old folk song, the current version being written in 1776 by Edward Bangs, a Harvard student who also fought as a ‘Minuteman’ in the American War of Independence (these were the volunteer soldiers who had to be ready for action ‘in a minute’ if they were called upon). He wrote a ballad with 15 verses which circulated in Boston and surrounding towns in 1776.As for the word ‘doodle’ this seems to have come from a Low German word for a silly or foolish person. And when ‘dude’ first appeared in the American language it was not a compliment. It could refer to a foolish fop or an ostentatious dandy. By 1884 this was being used for an easterner who was useless on a ranch in the west. By 1895 it was already starting to be used to mean just any male person. But I do find it a bit sad that younger Australians use this American slang term when there are perfectly good Aussie words available. If one young Aussie hails another as ‘Hey dude!’ why doesn’t he say, ‘Hey mate!’? As he should!

Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious In 1964 the Walt Disney company released their movie of Mary Poppins—based on the books by Australian-born author P. L. Travers, and starring Julie Andrews and Dick Van Dyke. The movie featured songs written by the brothers Richard M. Shermann and Robert B. Sherman. They said they wrote their music in the style of Edwardian British Music Hall songs. Mary Poppins won five Academy Awards, including for Best Original Music Score and Best Song for “Chim Chim Cher-ee.” But the song that captured the imagination of young people was the tongue twisting “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.” If you were a child at the time you might remember how delighted you were when you learned how to say it, and could rattle it off rapidly. The brothers Sherman said the word originated because they, like many others, used to make up silly big, nonsense words when they were kids. But is there more to the story? Well, there was a song with a similar word in the title “Supercalafajalistickespeealadojus” (no, don’t try to pronounce it!) that was written in 1949, and the authors of that song brought sued the Sherman brothers for copyright infringement. In the end, the court decided in the Shermans’ favour because, among other things, variants of the word were known well before 1949. In fact, there was a very similar nonsense word that appeared in a newspaper column by Helen Hermans in 1931. And some people have tried to break the word down into its component parts and explain its meaning that way. They will suggest that it has quite a complex origin: “super” (above or beyond, or simply the best), “cali” (they say comes from a component that means beauty), “fragilistic” (delicate, fragile), “expiali” (to atone for, to expiate), and “docious” (educatable). Well, perhaps. That all looks a bit far fetched to me. And those people who don’t like this 14-syllable word may be suffering from ‘hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia‎.’ Yes, you can say this one if you try: hippopoto-monstro-sesquippedalia-phobia‎. The ‘sesquipedalia’ part is a word coined (in Latin) by the Roman poet Horace meaning ‘a word that’s a foot-and-a-half long.’ Of course ‘phobia’ just means ‘fear of’ and the prefixes of ‘hippopoto’ (from ‘hippopotamus’) and ‘monstro’ (monstrous) are just there to make big words sound bigger. Tomorrow, back to normal sized words!

Ahabian Weird Word time once more. And this is one is so weird it’s not even found in the full Oxford English Dictionary. It’s also missing from other major dictionaries, such as the Cambridge and the Collins. It is, however, in the big American one—the Merriam-Webster Third International Unabridged. In fact, it was those Merrian-Websterpeople who first drew my attention to this word. They say the word comes from not one but two famous characters with the name of Ahab. The first of these is King Ahab—the seventh king of ancient Israel (919 BC to 896 BC). His wife was more famous than he was—she was the notorious Jezebel. She unjustly condemned people to death and was, on the whole, not a very nice person. The other Ahab was the fanatical captain of the whaling ship, the Pequod. On a previous voyage, the great white whale Moby Dick bit off Ahab’s leg and he now wears a leg made out of ivory. The whaling voyage of the Pequod ends up as a hunt for revenge on the whale, as Ahab forces the crew members to support his fanatical mission. When Moby Dick is finally sighted, Ahab’s hatred robs him of all caution, and the whale drags him to his death beneath the sea and sinks the Pequod. I think this (very rare and very weird) ‘Ahabian’ is more likely to come from the second Ahab rather than the first. The Merriam-Webster says that ‘Ahabian’ means a ‘monomaniac.’ Or, even worse, a ‘tyrannical monomaniac.’ And that certain describes this wild-eyed person at the helm of the whaling ship. Is this word of any possible use today? Well, try this for size. Is Chris Bowen, in his fanatical pursuit of ‘renewable energy’ a monomaniac? By passing laws to compel the rest of us to fall in line with his vision of a landscape filled with solar panels, wind turbines and massive transmission towers (and no trees—the trees all have to be cut down first) … by passing such laws is he a ‘tyrannical monomaniac’? If so, then he is ‘Ahabian.’ This odd, and rare, word does appear in some online dictionaries, including the Urban Dictionary which defines ‘Ahabian’ as ‘Doggedly going after a goal, such that you can be compared to Captain Ahab hunting the White Whale.’ And it goes on to give an example of the word used in a sentence: ‘He really wants this promotion—he's gone Ahabian over it.’ See if you can work ‘Ahabian’ into your conversation at some point this week!

Doge If you follow American news at all you’ll know that one of the words dominating public debate in the United States is the word ‘doge.’ In the case of the American term it is an acronym—made up from the initial letters in the phrase: ‘Department of Government Efficiency.’ And the man who is running this ‘Doge’ on behalf of President Trump is Elon Musk. He is being seen as an enemy by those who don’t want any cuts in government spending or government institutions. But for a wordie the interesting thing is the coincidence of the name. There was an earlier ‘doge’—in fact, a whole series of them—because for many years the ruler of the Italian city of Venice was called ‘the doge of Venice.’ If you’ve been there as a tourist you’ll know that the ‘Doge’s Palace’ is still there. And both words are not only spelled the same, they are pronounced the same. Whether you are talking about the medieval rulers of Venice or Elon Musk cutting a swathe through Washington the word ‘doge’ is pronounced dohj. The Italian word comes from the ancient Latin word dux meaning ‘leader.’ In fact, the title that Benito Mussolini chose for himself Il Duce comes from the same source and has the same meaning. So, perhaps, as the ‘doge of Washington’ Elon Musk is the leader—the Il Duce—of cost-cutting in Washington? The doges ruled the republic of Venice from AD 697 to AD 1797. Although the place was not a democracy they were still (in a sense) ‘elected’—but only from a small group of the leading families of Venice, and only voted for by a small group of the aristocrats of Venice. In English, the same Latin source word (dux) has given us the title ‘Duke.’ So there’s a sense that the ‘doge’ of Venice was what we would have called the ‘duke’ of Venice. And since Elon Musk is the world’s richest man (and clearly a very intelligent, smart bloke) perhaps he is the nearest that democratic America comes to having a ‘duke’? After all, he was appointed by a popularly elected president—and he had campaign alongside Donald Trump embodying Trump’s promise to cut government spending and government waste. These days Prince Edward is the ‘Duke of Edinburgh’ (having his father’s old title); so perhaps Elon Musk is the ‘Duke of Washington’ with the president’s authority to trim the waste, end the corruption, and close institutions that no longer serve a useful role. Perhaps the parallel between Musk and the old time ‘Doge of Venice’ is not a bad one?

Weaponize On the CBS Sunday morning news show “Face the Nation” the host Margaret Brennan last Sunday interviewed US Secretary of State Marco Rubio. One question she asked has triggered off these meditations on the word ‘weaponize.’ Brennan referred to Vice President J. D. Vance’s speech in Munich to European leaders. In that speech Vance referred to attempts by some European countries to shut down free speech. Brennan said to Marco Rubion: “He (meaning Vance) was standing in a country where free speech was weaponized to conduct a genocide.” Clearly, she was referring to the holocaust. But where did she get the idea that free speech caused the holocaust? And what does it mean to ‘weaponize’ free speech? Marco Rubio slapped down her absurd claim swiftly: “I have to disagree with you. Free speech was not used to conduct the genocide. The genocide was conducted by an authoritarian Nazi regime… there was no free speech in Nazi Germany…” So, Margaret Brennan’s assumption was absurd (and she should probably apologise for claiming free speech caused the holocaust). But what does it mean to claim that free speech can be ‘weaponized’? And why is ‘weaponized’ now the word-of-choice by the loony Left to attack anyone who disagrees with them? This word ‘weaponize’ is recorded from 1938 (making it older than I would have thought). In the 1950s and 60s it was occasionally used to talk about ‘weaponizing’ America’s rocket program. Which makes some sort of sense—since it pointed to taking new technology and using it as a weapon in the national arsenal. In 2001 (following the terrorist attacks on 9/11) Americans started to receive envelopes filled with white powder, and the question was: had anthrax been ‘weaponized’ by the terrorists? In other words, had a livestock disease been turned into a weapon to attack humans? Those are linguistically sensible uses of ‘weaponize.’ But from 1999 ‘weaponize’ has been used figuratively to mean ‘to use or repurpose (something) in order to undermine, criticize, or oppose others, or in order to spread discord’ (Oxford English Dictionary). In other words, I suppose an authoritarian government (such as Dan Andrews in Victoria) could ‘weaponize’ fear in order to keep the population submissive. And I suppose an unscrupulous government could ‘weaponize’ divisions in the community to keep themselves in power. But… but… surely the claim that free speech can be ‘weaponized’ is just a contradiction in terms? And is evidence that left wingers (such as Margaret Brennan) have lost touch with reality! Or am I missing something here?

Malapropisms (part two) Two days ago (when I explained the origin of ‘malapropisms’) I invited you to contribute some ‘malapropisms’ of your own. You have done brilliantly! Here are some of them: 

Leo writes – I do have a good friend who is prone to malapropisms. His latest, referring to my lantana plant, is "it's an obnoxious weed you know mate." Meaning "noxious", of course. 

This is from Glenn – When my granddaughter Ruby was in her first years of school and singing the National Anthem, her opening line was "Australians all are ostriches...." In her twenties now, we don't let her forget that.

Keith Potger (co-founder of The Seekers) joined in – Our Seekers manager, John Kovac, had several malapropisms: "I tried to discuss the contract with him, but he went off on a tandem". "...in the light cold hard of day... "That's been around since Adam was a kneehopper". "Silence is olden".

From Neroli – During a group conversation about the state of the world (years ago) one bloke, in all seriousness said "you know what the trouble is? It's the lack of apathy!" (Showing a total lack of empathy!)

Kay writes – And let us not forget Dorrie Evans from Number 96 fame. "Beresk" was her famous feeling. The poor dear suffered "migrant headaches." It's a "fragment of your imagination." And -- Prices were "exuberant." 

This delightful one is from Suzanne – Reminds me of my father's old boss, an immigrant from Holland just after World War II, a cabinet maker/builder by trade, who would exclaim with great satisfaction when installing a cabinet: "it fits like a fiddle!". 

Alan sent in this memory – I recall many years ago overhearing a man telling another of his plans for the entrance road to his new rural property... he planned to" plant a revenue of trees and irritate 'em"! (Whatever happened to ‘avenue’ and ‘irrigate’?)

Here’s Heather’s contribution – Here is one I found when checking the work of a Swedish translator: "... the many small practical problems with which the architect is daily affronted." Meaning of course "confronted".

John reminded us of another mangler of language –                     Mrs Malaprop's cousin, Wm Spooner, proposing a toast to Queen Victoria... " Three cheers for the queer old dean."

And finally, Susan shared a who raft of these things -- You possibly know of a poet named Brian Bilston. He captures a few malapropisms in very clever way in his poem "How to Avoid Mixing your Metaphors". 

Susan’s suggestion is a good one – so here is Brian Bilson’s poem:

How to Avoid Mixing Your Metaphors

It’s not rocket surgery. 

First, get all your ducks on the same page. 

After all, you can’t make an omelette without breaking stride.

Be sure to watch what you write with a fine-tuned comb. 

Check and re-check until the cows turn blue. 

It’s as easy as falling off a piece of cake.

Don’t worry about opening up a whole hill of beans; 

You can always burn that bridge when you come to it, 

If you follow where I’m coming from.

Concentrate! Keep your door closed and your enemies closer. 

Finally, don’t take the moral high horse: 

If the metaphor fits, walk a mile in it.

Cloud nine If you’re feeling very happy you might say that you’re ‘on cloud nine.’ But why ‘cloud nine’? Why not ‘cloud ten’? Or any other number, for that matter? Michael Quinion has traced ‘to be on cloud nine’ (meaning blissfully happy) back to America in the 1950s. He suggests the phrase might have been popularised by a weekly radio drama called Johnny Dollar. The show first went to air in February 1949 and ran for a decade. It starred Bob Bailey as Johnny Dollar, a freelance insurance investigator. In the show, every time the hero was knocked unconscious (which happened in almost every episode) he said he was ‘transported to cloud nine.’ But surely that can’t be the start of the expression? For the writers to use it in that way it must have already been in circulation. The Oxford English Dictionary has a citation quoting ‘cloud nine’ from 1959, and an earlier one from 1956 for ‘cloud seven.’ So, did this start as ‘cloud seven’ and get racked up by two numbers to ‘cloud nine’? And if so, why? Well, there was a very old expression ‘seventh heaven’—recorded in Old English a thousand or more years ago. This may have arisen simply from the rhyme between ‘seven’ and ‘heaven.’ Although it may also have been influenced by the Arabic notion of there being seven heavens (found the Koran). However it came about, you can see how ‘seventh heaven’ might be translated into the notion of being on ‘cloud seven’ in popular speech (which appears to have happened in America in the 20th century). Alright, that’s the origin of ‘cloud seven’—but how did this become ‘cloud nine’? The Idioms Online website claims that the most likely origin can be found in the International Cloud Atlas from 1896—an attempt at establishing an international cloud classification system. They agreed on nine classes, or levels. The cumulonimbus, the tallest cloud known, became ‘cloud nine’ (at heights of up to 40,000 feet). Subsequent publications changed the cumulonimbus to number ten, but cloud nine stuck. But how did such a technical publication become so widely known as to influence language? From weather reports on radio or in newspapers? (We’re talking about a time before television.) Possibly. That’s the best guess I have.

Malapropisms A reader recently wrote about the mangling of words and asked if there is a name for such mangling. Her examples were all from a friend who does this often. This friend talked about the ‘medium strip’ in the middle of the road, about like ‘advocado’ on sandwiches, about coming back from overseas suffering from ‘jet flag’, and complained about the habits of another by saying ‘a leper never changes his spots.’ All those muddles and mangles are a bit of fun. And there is a name for them. They are called ‘malapropisms.’ This comes from the name of a character in the 1775 play The Rivals by Richard Brinsley Sheridan. The character in question is Mrs Malaprop. She constantly tries to sound educated by using familiar (or literate) expressions—and never gets them quite right. The official definition of a ‘malapropism’ in the Oxford English Dictionary says that these word muddles amount to being: ‘The ludicrous misuse of words, esp. in mistaking a word for another resembling it.’ It was the essayist Leigh Hunt who made the noun ‘malapropism’ popular, starting in the early 1800s. Here are some examples from the famous Mrs Malaprop herself (from Sheridan’s play): “Sure, if I reprehend anything…” (she means ‘apprehend’) “…in this world it is the use of my oracular tongue…” (she means ‘vernacular tongue’) “…and a nice derangement of epitaphs!” (she means an ‘arrangement of epithets’). In another place in the play Mrs Malaprop says: “She’s as headstrong as an allegory on the banks of the Nile” (she means ‘alligator’); “Promise to forget this fellow—to illiterate him I say” (she means ‘obliterate’); and “I have laid Sir Anthony’s preposition before her” (she means ‘proposition’). The same sort of thing turned up in the classic Aussie comedy Kath and Kim, where they were sure they had enough money because they were ‘effluent’! Now it’s over to you. If you (like the reader who started all this) have a friend who mixes and muddles the language, share some nice quotes—and I’ll post them on the website. (Remember, this is a family friendly website, so keep it clean!)