Kel's previous Ozwords of the day...

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Emotional baggage Recently the lexicographers at Grammarphobi.com have been chewing the ends of their pencils and worrying about the origin and meaning of the expression ‘emotional baggage.’ They did some diligent searching and managed to trace it back to the early years of the 20th century. They write: ‘The earliest example we’ve found for “emotional baggage” is from The House of Defence (1906), a novel by E. F. Benson: “But all the emotional baggage, that she had consistently thrown away all her life, seemed to her to be coming back now, returned to her by some dreadful dead-letter office.” However, the Oxford English Dictionary has found this kind of construction of ‘baggage’ preceded by an adjective as far back as 1860. From that date they can find references to ‘political baggage’, ‘intellectual baggage’ and ‘cultural baggage.’ So for a long time now ‘baggage’ has meant more than just your suitcases. Here’s how the Oxford defines this sort of construction: ‘Beliefs, attitudes, experiences, or knowledge perceived as burdensome encumbrances; (in later use) especially characteristics of this type which are considered undesirable or disadvantageous in a new situation.’ I usually manage to miss the commercials on TV but recently I noticed one in which an office worker had bits of office stationary fly up and attach themselves to him (I have no idea what it was advertising). And that seems to be the sort of image that lies behind all this ‘(adjective) baggage’ expressions. They all seem to refer to stuff that we collect as we travel along life’s way—largely unintentionally, and perhaps, even unconsciously. So what do we do with such non-physical ‘baggage’? The suggestion is that what we should do is ‘unpack’ it. Grammarphobia quotes the title of an article from Psychology Today(from August 1, 2022) with the headline: ‘5 Steps to Unpacking Your Emotional Baggage.’ The intriguing thing about this is that the notion of ‘unpacking’ the unwanted stuff you are carrying around goes back a long way indeed. When Shakespeare has Hamlet think about revenging the murder of his father, the indecisive young prince of Denmark says: ‘Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell, / Must like a whore unpack my heart with words.’ And, as it turns out, doing things with words is what he is best at. So, there you are—we have now unpacked the expression ‘emotional baggage.’

Intifada The latest very ‘cool’ and hip slogan among the activist class is the expression ‘make the intifada global.’ What does the word ‘intifada’ mean? And what does the slogan mean? The word ‘intifada’ first appeared in English from around 1985. It is, fairly obviously, an Arab word meaning ‘rebellion’ or ‘uprising.’ Wikipedia lists some 30 different ‘intifadas’ from the 1950s to the present day. The vast majority of these happened in the Middle East, as one group tried to seize power from another. However, in 2014 Andrew Hussey reported in The Guardian newspaper on what he called ‘the French intifada’—in which Muslims who had settled in France took up arms against the French state. And this points us towards what ‘globalize the intifada’ (or ‘make the intifada global’) means. The slogan has been chanted at various anti-Semitic rallies in western countries. In October 2023, pro-Palestinian protesters chanted ‘globalize the intifada’ near a library building where some Jewish students were, in what has been characterized as an anti-Semitic incident. New York City Mayor Eric Adams responded to the incident, affirming that hate has no place in New York City and emphasizing the right to peaceful protest. But the ‘globalize the intifada’ is a claim to a right to rebellion or uprising, and seems not to be interested in peaceful protests. Has the ‘global intifada’ reached us here in Australia yet? I’m not aware of this slogan being chanted at any of the ugly protests that we have seen in TV news reports. But clearly when there are arson attacks on synagogues and angry rioters storm restaurants and attack customers we are seeing ‘intifada’ on Australian streets, whether we want to admit that or not. In America, both the Anti-Defamation League and the American Jewish Committee interpret the slogan ‘globalize the intifada’ as endorsing acts of terrorism and indiscriminate violence against Israelis and Jews worldwide. According to newspaper reports the phrase has been associated with incitement of violence against Jewish communities. Some commentators have interpreted the use of the slogan not just as a challenge to Israel but as being a broader declaration of war against Jews. Would it be reasonable to ask would-be immigrants to Australia whether or not they support ‘intifada’? Surely that would not be an unreasonable thing to do? And unless they are prepared to reject the whole notion of ‘intifada’ on Australian soil they should be denied entry. 

Truth Vs Facts A reader (Paul) writes to ask about the difference between the words ‘truth’ and ‘facts.’ In his email Paul said that he Goggled ‘What is the difference between truth and fact?’ So, I tried to Google the same question—and discovered how wrong and misleading the internet can be. For example, the site that came up at the top of the search list said this: ‘A fact is a statement that can be proven or verified through evidence or data, while truth is a more abstract concept that is subjective and can vary depending on individual perspectives.’ The second part of that sentence is simply dishonest. But let’s go back and start this examination with the world’s most authoritative dictionary, the Oxford English Dictionary—and they say there is no real or substantial difference between ‘truth’ and ‘facts.’ When used correctly (honestly) they are exact synonyms. The Oxford defines ‘truth’ as meaning ‘in accordance with the facts, with reality.’ And the Oxford says that '’facts’ means ‘that which is known to be true.’ No room there for being ‘subjective’ and pretending that an opinion is the same as ‘the truth.’ Back in 1970 British philosopher Alan R. White wrote what I think is a brilliant little book called Truth. He spend a great deal of time in that book surveying how philosophers have thought about truth from the time of the ancient Greeks up to the present time. But it’s when he comes to his conclusion that he really strikes gold. Because he is part of the great tradition of British analytical philosopher he looks for clarity in his definition of ‘truth’—which he aims to set out in plain, ordinary language. With that in mind, White defines ‘truth’ as meaning ‘how things are.’ Isn’t that brilliant? Three simple words everyone can understand. If I say that Peter is taller than Roger, while you say Roger is taller than Peter what we do is measure them—that will show us ‘how things are’ and which of those two statements if ‘true’ (yours or mine) will be the one that tells us how things are. And in that whole discussion you substitute that word ‘facts’ for ‘truth’ and it would be correct. That’s what the words mean. To that we can add that sometimes a situation is complex, and so it’s difficult to be sure ‘how things are’. I say it’s raining, and you say it’s not. But if very fine, like misty rain if a falling we can dispute about whether it deserves to be called ‘rain’ or not. But that’s a dispute about ‘how things are’—not a dispute about the meaning of the word ‘truth.’ That’s why it is utter nonsense to talk about ‘my truth’ or ‘your truth’—those are meaningless phrases. ‘Truth’ just means ‘how things are’—nothing more and nothing less. In complex situations we can debate and dispute about how things are—but only to settle on what is the case, what fits the facts, what it true.

Populism I have written before about this word ‘populism’ because I have found it puzzling (and still do). It is being used as a political ‘sneer word.’ If you want to put someone down you can label them as a mere ‘populist’ and therefore unworthy of serious consideration. Both Donald Trump and Nigel Farage have been dismissed in this way as mere ‘populists.’ But my problem is this: what is the difference between ‘populism’ and ‘democracy’? Because that, surely, is what democracy amounts to—the popular will, the will of the populace expressed through the ballot box (where both Trump and Farage do extremely well!). So, if that’s what ‘democracy’ is, and ‘democracy’ is good, why is ‘populism’ treated as if it were bad? One of my favourite journalists is the great Greg Sheridan, and he tackled this question in a recent column in The Australian newspaper. In wrestling with this, he came up with the suggestion that the distinction between ‘populism’ and democracy is that serious democracy is a battle over serious policies while ‘populism’ operates at the shallow end of the pool. In his column Greg wrote this: ‘Sometimes populism involves popular wisdom, but sometimes it involves simplistic and wildly unrealistic solutions to complicated problems, a despairing impatience with reality.’ He goes on to point out that there is such a shallow ‘popularism’ of the Left, as well as a version of the Right. Left Wing populism can be seen in the shallow posturing of Greta Thunberg. She seems to think that if she tells politicians to change the global climate they can easily do so—and they fail from a lack of will, not because her demands are unrealistic. When angry crowds of demonstrators claim that ‘from the river to the sea Palestine shall be free’ they seem not to understand that they are calling for the destruction of the ancient Jewish homeland of Israel, and the death or dispersal of seven million Jews. So, has Greg solved the problem? Does ‘populism’ deserve to be a sneer word? Does it capture the notion that as well those people wrestling with messy reality, that are also political players who just posture and shout slogans? Perhaps it does. And perhaps that is the role that ‘populism’ needs to play in our political lexicon. 

The “F” word It wasn’t all that long ago that President Trump angrily complained about Iran and Israel that they ‘have been fighting so long and so hard that they don’t know what f--- they’re doing.’ (No. I’m not going to spell out the word in this column.) Shortly afterwards, journalist David Penberthy asked whether the ‘F’ word now had a presidential pardon. He wrote that: ‘Trump’s press conference was a major moment in the history of both linguistics and manners.’ Penberthy was raising the question of whether or not (as the leader of the Free World) has issued a sort of global permission for anyone blowing off steam to use this highly offensive word. Penberthy asked: ‘Will we be using it on radio soon? Will it make its way into press conferences?’ All I can say is: I hope not. Admitting that he might he exposing himself as a foul-mouthed bogan but (he says) in his opinion some sentences are rendered vastly better by inclusion of the “F” word. Sorry, David, I can’t agree with you. Part of David’s defence is that it is an ancient word that ‘predates Shakespeare and was used by Chaucer.’ The word in question appears in English in the 1500s, so it was most probably not known by Geoffrey Chaucer (1343-1400). And there is no evidence of it in Shakespeare’s published works. So how David claims to have this historical knowledge denied to everyone (except Doctor Who) I don’t know. The “F” seems to come from a Germanic source, and to be related to a large number of similar words in other Germanic languages. It’s earliest meaning may have something like ‘to hit’ or ‘to strike’ but it fairly quickly came to be applied to sexual intercourse. And I must say it strikes me as odd to use a word that should refer to intimacy and affection as a swear word. But whatever its history, it has long ceased to be a civilised word used by civilised people. The Oxford English Dictionary labels it as ‘course.’ Exactly. Our standards are collapsing, and if we are guided by David Penberthy in this matter they will only collapse further. It is right and proper that language should strive to be decent and respectable—while still being vigorous and clear. If someone utters the “F” in a moment of great emotional distress we might forgive them—but we would not make their behaviour standard or normal. So, no, even if the president said, the “F” is still on the banned list! 

World English Yesterday in this place I wrote about the absurd notion that people in India should stop speaking English on the grounds that English is a ‘colonial language.’ In addition to the sound reasons for rejecting I listed yesterday I should have mentioned that English is needed, because it is (these days) World English. I am currently reading a new book called Australian English Reimagined in which our colourful Aussie version of English is treated as a branch of, or a part of, World English. This is often written in the plural as ‘World Englishes.’ The Oxford English Dictionary is undertaking a major research project on World English, and has a World Englishes hub on its website. The OED defines ‘World English’ as ‘a term referring to localized or indigenized varieties of English spoken throughout the world by people of diverse cultural backgrounds.’ It seems that the experts have now embraced the concept that there is no such thing as THE English language—rather this rich, global language exists only in a collection of local forms called ‘Englishes.’ So the Americans speak ‘American English’ while Canadians speak ‘Canadian English.’ In Britain itself this is no such thing (they now tell us) as standard English—only all the regional variations. From Yorkshire to Somerset and beyond they all sound different, and all have a slightly different vocabulary—they are all clearly streams the same mighty river. The great linguist David English pointed to this idea years ago when he wrote a book called The Stories of English. It was ‘stories’ plural not ‘story’ singular because English is a multiflowered plant that produces different blooms in different places. Sometimes those local versions of English have local names. So there is a form of English spoken in India called ‘Hinglish’; and a version spoken in Singapore called ‘Singlish.’ This makes the point that what English does for India is to connect it to the rest of the world. Or do they really expect the rest of the world to learn Hindi or Bengali to speak to them? As far as our form of English is concerned—it is (I claim) the most colourful, the most inventive, and the best. We have contributed more than 10,000 distinctive terms to World English. And we are still in the business of coined new words. So, you are doing well in the world of World English—and you should keep it up!

Colonial English Should former British colonies discard the English language as a distasteful relic of the colonial past? Spoiler alert—the conclusion I am about to reach is: no, course not! The idea that it should has been proposed in India by Amit Shah, a former president of of the ruling Hindu political party, the BJP (Bhartiya Janata Party). It is, in reality, a silly and pointless suggestion—because of the key role that English plays in Indian life. On the Indian sub-continent there are 270 different languages. When India became an independent nation in 1947 it was a giant nation, that sprawled across a vast area of the Indo-Orient. Some of this territory was broken off in the partition of India in 1948, in which the predominantly Muslim parts became two separate countries—originally East Pakistan (now Bangladesh) and West Pakistan (now just Pakistan). The new nation of India had no ‘official language’ as such—instead they had 21 ‘scheduled languages’, such as Hindi, Bengali, and Tamil (and English!). The point is that during the long period of the British Raj English was used by the rulers, both the British colonial rulers and the local ruling class. That meant that English became what is called a ‘lingua franca.’ This is an expression that came in English from Italian meaning ‘Any language that is used by speakers of different languages as a common medium of communication; a common language.’ (Oxford). The expression was coined at a time when French was the language of international diplomacy (and that’s why so many diplomatic terms are still French). Well, bringing that back to India—with its ancient, rich culture and philosophical tradition. What the imposition of English provided was a language tool to enable people from one end of the country to speak to people from the opposite end of the country. But now this Amit Shah is claiming the Indians should feel ‘ashamed’ if they speak English in public. His suggestion is nonsense. It was because they were colonized by the English that the Indians were able to become a vast, single nation—free and independent. And the English left behind a complete, functioning public service, a national military, a market economy, a huge network of railways—and a useful language! The point is that colonizing quite often benefits those who are colonized! This is something that few Indigenous activists and agitators are prepared to admit. But it’s true. If you doubt me, the book to read is Colonization: A Moral Reckoningby Nigel Biggar—which spells out the case with detailed historical evidence. So, is English (here or anywhere) an unnecessary colonial relic? No! It’s a great colonial gift! 

Mickey words As you might expect, I’m often asked about expressions I’ve explained in the past. And I don’t mind going back and explaining them again for those who missed the explanation first time round. For example, ‘take the mickey’—meaning to make fun or someone or speak mockingly of them. This is of British origin and the earliest citation is from 1948. But who was the Mickey being referred to? The answer seems to be: no one is sure. One suggestion is that the full name was Mickey Bliss. If that is correct then the expression ‘taking the Micke’” is short for ‘taking the Mickey Bliss’ which is rhyming slang. I won’t tell you want it’s rhyming slang for something I think you can work this out for yourself. However, there is also the possibility that ‘Mickey Bliss’ was a person—either factual or fictional. Recently there was a BBC radio drama called Tommies set in World War One, and featuring a character called ‘Sergeant Mickey Bliss of the signals section.’ So whether such a character might have existed in the British imagination and gave rise to the saying, or whether the character has been named after this ‘taking the mickey’ expression we could possibly debate. Although it seems almost certain that the expression came first. Then there’s the other ‘Mickey’ expression— ‘Mickey Finn’. This turns up in American private eye stories as a slang term for knock-out drops, a drug that will send you unconscious. So, who was Mickey Finn? Michael Quinion, on his Worldwide Words website says there’s some doubt over the matter, but Mickey Finn may have been the man of that name who ran the Lone Star Saloon in Chicago from 1896 to December 1903. Most of what we know, or think we know, about Mr Finn’s activities comes from a 1940 book by Herbert Asbury called Gem of the Prairie. The establishment seems to have been a dive of the lowest kind, in which Finn fenced stolen goods, supervised pickpockets and ran prostitutes. He had a sideline, as Mr Asbury tells it, by which he drugged patrons with chloral hydrate, robbed them, and dumped them in an alley. But the earliest use of the expression ‘Mickey Finn’ to mean a strong sedative is from 1915—which puts a gap between this man Mickey Finn and the sedative named after him. And that casts some doubt on the connection. But, so far, it’s the only source for ‘Mickey Finn’ that has been suggested.  

Just Recently the Dictionary.com website ran a piece complaining about the overuse of the word ‘just’ in modern English. What do they mean by that? First, the background. ‘Just’ is a word with a range of meanings, that came into English by about the 14th century from a Latin source word (via French). The classical Latin source word iustus means ‘lawful, rightful, fair’ and is the source of the whole ‘justice’ family of words in English. But ‘just’ can also be used as a modifier—as a small word to modify or qualify another word. As an adjective it can modify a noun, or as an adverb it can qualify a verb. It seems to me, that in casual conversation ‘just’ is used most often to mean a limitation. ‘I got two pizzas for just five dollars’ expresses a limitation on the amount of money paid. The problem that Dictionary.com has, is that ‘just’ is being used these days as what they call a ‘politeness marker’—as an expression that limits the commitment, or obligations, of the speaker while trying to be nice about it. So when the boss says, ‘I know it’s getting late, but if you could just finish the May figures before you leave—okay?’ That’s the boss giving an order not to leave the office until the May figures are done, but trying to be nice about it, by sticking a ‘politeness marker’ in there, in the form of ‘just’ as a limiting modifier (‘if you just do this I won’t ask any more of you today.’) People can be unclear about accepting a social invitation, or expressing approval (or disapproval) of someone else’s behaviour by softening, (modifying) their language, using ‘just’ as a modifier of limitation. And that’s what’s bothering the editorial team at Dictionary.com. They write: ‘Politeness markers are incredibly useful. We need them to communicate effectively, which often means respectfully, to navigate life. They are like social lubricants and glues. But when politeness markers like just get overused, especially in workplace or educational settings, they can have the opposite effect: they seem impolite. Too much hedging can come across as indecisive.’ Do you find yourself doing this? Constantly avoiding a clear stand, or a clear statement, by saying this is ‘just’ so-and-so? Well, those irritated people at Dictionary.com think you are using ‘just’ as a crutch. And that you should be aware of this. And that you should do it less. They say that directness is invaluable—and, on the whole, I am inclined to agree with them. On the other hand, I don’t seem to have heard ‘just’ being overused as much as they have. Is it an American thing? Do we not abuse the word ‘just’ in this country? What do you think? Just asking. 

EOFY I first came across this years ago. I’m not sure how many. Five? Ten? At any rate, the first time I saw it I was puzzled by this strange looking coded expression appearing in the media—often in the context of advertisements. I fairly quickly worked out (from the context) that this baffling collection of letters is actually quite straightforward—it means ‘End of Financial Year.’ But it still puzzles others. I was asked recently what this foreign looking word in so many advertisements at this time year actually meant. According to the online Urban Dictionary EOFY is recorded from 2009. But I’m not so sure. I keep thinking it must be older than that. My best guess would be that this has been a bit of accountancy jargon for many decades, and only more recently has it made its way out into the daylight of the wider language. By the way, is it still an initialism? Or is it now a proper word—an acronym? Surely we no longer sound out that those four letters? Surely we all now say this as if it’s a word—pronounced ee-OH-fee? Do you agree? It’s the decision to use the word in advertising, as opposed to accountancy, that I find intriguing. Presumably at some point in the not too distant past a bunch of wise acres were gathered around the planning table for their usual ‘end of financial year sale’ advertising meeting. And some bright spark said: ‘take out “end of financial year” and just put in “EOFY” instead.’ The attraction would have been that in print advertising in the newspapers this would save a lot of space on the page—going from four words down to just four letters. Perhaps someone around that planning table raised an objection ‘But people don’t know what “EOFY” means, do they?’ And clearly the doubter was shouted down; ‘It’s been around for years! Anyone whose ever done any bookkeeping knows what “EOFY” stands for!’ But, of course, outside of the jargon-filled world of accounting that was not true. But then someone around that table would have pointed out the obvious—that anyone unfamiliar with ‘EOFY’ could fairly quickly work it out from the context. And that person was right. That is what has happened. I’ve just done a rapid search of the major dictionaries, and none of them seem to have caught up on ‘EOFY’ yet. (And, yes, I did try it in both upper and lower case.) Is this only used in Australia? And why are the dictionaries ignoring it? There is still that much that is puzzling about ‘EOFY’!

'Misogyny A short time ago I was chatting with the former Deputy Prime Minister of Australia John Anderson about the sort of language politicians use. He drew my attention to the way Prime Minister Julia Gillard used (or misused!) the word ‘misogyny’ in her vicious attack on Tony Abbott under parliamentary privilege. This whole brouhaha started when Perer Slipper defected from the Liberal Party and Gillard appointed him as Speaker of the House of Representatives. This effectively gave Gillard's minority government another vote in the House of Representatives. On 9 October 2012, hundreds of text messages sent by Slipper were made public as part of legal proceedings instituted by his former advisor, James Ashby, who had made allegations of sexual harassment against Slipper. In moving a no-confidence motion against the Speaker, Abbott stated that Slipper's texts were sexist and misogynistic and rendered him unfit to serve as speaker, and implied that Gillard was hypocritical in defending Slipper's continuation as speaker. Knowing how vulnerable she was she decided the best form of defence was attack. It a vitriolic speech she said: ‘I will not be lectured about sexism and misogyny by this man; I will not.....If he [Abbott] wants to know what misogyny looks like in modern Australia, he doesn't need a motion in the House of Representatives, he needs a mirror. That's what he needs.’ She was playing with language with all of the verbal violence she had learned in Labor Party factional battles. But of all the people in that parliament, Tony Abbott was perhaps the most innocent of misogyny. Making Gillard’s speech a fictional invention and an abuse of the English language. By trying to portray Tont Abbot as a ‘misogynist’ Gillard was, in a coldly calculated way, actually insulting Abbott’s wife and three daughters, and his Chief of Staff at the time (my friend Peta Credlin) all of whom knew Abbott and respected him as being the very opposite of misogynistic. This is an example of the fiery, and manipulative use of language by a politician (in this case, a politician who wanted to save her own skin). ‘Misogyny’ has been part of the English language since around 1656. The word means ‘hatred or dislike of women’—an absurd claim to make of a man who had chosen a strong woman as his Chief of Staff and who had a wife and three daughters. But that is what politicians do to the language. In 1946 George Orwell published a famous essay called ‘Politics and the English Language’ warning of the damage being done to our language by politicians. He was right.

Groupthink Social psychologist Irving Janis coined the term ‘groupthink’ in 1971. In fact, coining this word is the achievement for which he was most famous (he was born in 1918 and died in 1990—hence the use of the past tense). One of the areas that Janis studied was decision making—and the role of group dynamics on decision making. This is where this clever coinage ‘groupthink’ emerged. According to Wikipedia, ‘groupthink’ means, ‘the tendency of groups to try to minimize conflict and reach consensus without sufficiently testing, analysing, and evaluating their ideas.’ Which strikes me as a rather inflated explanation. So, let’s see if I can break that down, and make it all a bit clearer. To begin with, the ‘group’ part of ‘groupthink’ can be quite large. So while it can apply to a small, cohesive group of people, it often (perhaps most often?) applies to a large group who make up a corporation or an institution of some kind. And the point about what such a large group does is—they all think the same way. Perhaps some concrete examples will make this clearer. It is possible for a whole university to simply lean in the direction of being pro-Palestine and anti-Israel. There may still be a minority (the Jews and the Christians at the university, for example) who disagree. But on the whole the vast majority are uncritically swept along by an assumption that ‘of course’ all the Palestinian protestors must be right, and ‘of course’ Israel must be evil. No critical analysis is ever applied. It is simply an unexamined assumption. The brain is turned off, and is replaced by a kind of ‘group mind’ that just thinks the same thoughts inside everyone’s head. That is ‘groupthink.’ Or take the case of the ABC. During the referendum on establishing an Indigenous ‘Voice’ to parliament (by re-writing the constitution) the ABC was dominated by a ‘groupthink’ that just assumed (without any deep thought or critical analysis) that this must be a good thing. Consequently, ABC programs were made by people who just assumed that opposition to The Voice was evil. And this ‘groupthink’ (I believe) dominates almost all the thinking (or non-thinking) among ABC staff almost all the time. Former ABC Chairman Maurice Newman has said that it is ‘groupthink’ by ABC staff that dominates that organisation. And the bottom line? Never take your ideas from others! Not even the group around you! Accept no ‘unexamined assumptions.’ Every assumption, every opinion, should be critically examined. (Including mine!)

Ensorcelled There I was, reading a short book review, and this word leaped out at me— ‘ensorcelled.’ What? I cried. What an amazing word! Here’s the context. The book being reviewed discussed (among other things) James Dean’s 1955 movie Rebel Without a Cause. The book was not positive about the movie, calling it a ‘contrived melodrama.’ Despite which, they said, it was a highly influential movie—liked and admired by such people as Bob Dylan, Martin Scorsese and Elvis Presley. These people, it said, were ‘ensorcelled’ by the movie. There’s that amazing word! It is (obviously) a rare word, but it has been part of the English language since at least 1589. It means ‘enchanted’ or ‘bewitched.’ You can see how this fits the context. The claim being made was that Bob, Martin and Elvis were all ‘enchanted’ to the point of being ‘bewitched’ by this old James Dean movie. The word came into English from a very similar Old French word ensorceler. But it remains rare. There are only three citations (quotations) under this entry in the full Oxford English Dictionary—the most recent in 1885. And the claim the book under review made about the power of this old movie to ‘ensorcell’ people is clear. I know (from having hosted the Elvis show on radio for many years) that Elvis wanted to be ‘the next James Dean’ and often modelled his performance along those lines. And it’s how it fits the mindset, and creative style, of both Martin Scorsese and Bob Dylan. So it was the right word for the writer of the book review to use. But why on earth did he use it? Who did he expect to understand the word? Or did he expect that none of his readers would understand—and we’d all just be impressed by the breadth of his scholarship and linguistic knowledge? And, just to clear up any lose ends, this word ‘ensorcelled’ is closely related to the much more familiar word ‘sorcerer’ (one who practices sorcery, a wizard). In much the same way, Rebel Without a Cause ‘cast a spell’ (so to speak) on certain people. By the way, this familiar word ‘sorcerer’ is related to ‘sort’—meaning the casting of lots (called ‘sorts’) to predict the future. Hence, to ‘sort’ people originally meant ‘to pronounce the fate or lot’ of these people—the sort of thing a ‘sorcerer’ might do. Which means we’ve gone a long way round to unpack this strange, rare, and unfamiliar ‘ensorcelled.’ 

Yesterday Hearing the classic song ‘Yesterday’ on the radio I decided that it was time to look at this word. The song, of course, was written by Paul McCartney in 1965, and released as a Beatles song.  It went on to become a number one song around the world. It has, I am told, been covered by other artists more than 2,200 times—making it the most covered song in the world. It started as just a melody. Paul, apparently, woke up one morning with the whole melody in his head. He sat down at the piano and began playing it to make sure he wouldn’t forget it. For a month he played to other musicians asking them if they had heard it before. When he was finally convinced it was an original melody he wrote words to go with it. But did you know it was originally called ‘Scramble Eggs’? That’s a phrase he used just because it fitted the note structure of the melody (‘Scrambled eggs / Oh my baby how I love your legs/ But not as much as I love scrambled eggs’). And then he got serious about it and wrote the words we know. Which brings us back to the word itself. ‘Yesterday’ is a very old word. Its Old English source word is found as early as 950 ad in the Lindisfarne Gospels. It’s clearly the word ‘day’ with a prefix, but just what does the prefix mean? The only similar word found in any related language is a word in Gothic (also ‘day’ with a prefix) which means ‘tomorrow.’ And in Old Norse there is a similarly constructed word which means both yesterday and tomorrow. So scholars think that the Old English word from which we get ‘yesterday’ also had both meanings—it could either mean the day preceding the present day or the day following the present day. And the Oxford English Dictionary contains a quote from Sir Thomas More (from 1533) which includes the expression ‘if they tarry till yesterday’—indicating that ‘yesterday’ really did (at one time) mean either yesterday or tomorrow (with the meaning being determined by the context).

Bomb cyclone Susan writes to say: “Hi Kel, I hope that your recovery is going well. I have a question about the term ‘bomb cyclone’ that is being used in relation to a weather event on the east coast. It seems to be a hysterical name used to engender fear. I would like to know what it actually means and whether you think it is an appropriate term to use in the situation.” Given the wind and rain that has been lashing Sydney, it’s a good question. And, yes, she’s right that it sounds melodramatic. The story behind it begins with the word ‘cyclone.’ An English sea captain named Henry Piddington coined the name ‘cyclone’ in 1842—to name windstorms that whirl in a circular motion. His word came from a bit of ancient Greek meaning ‘the coil of a snake.’ Then in 1948 the adjective ‘bomb’ was added to this in American English. The idea appears to have been to convey the notion that this is a fast developing, or fast moving, storm system—so fast that it is virtually ‘explosive’ in its impact. So, yes while this is a very melodramatic expression, it was coined in America, where they seem to be very fond of melodrama. Since then American weathermen have used the ‘bomb’ adjective more widely. They are happy to talk about a ‘rain bomb’ or a ‘snow bomb.’ It took rather longer for this to catch on outside of the USA—but it now certainly has. Our own weather bureau is now happy to use ‘bomb cyclone’ or ‘bombogenesis’ for this type of storm. Officially ‘bombogenesis’ means a weather phenomenon ‘characterized by a rapid and sustained fall of barometric pressure in the centre of an extratropical cyclonic weather system.’ Our own weather bureau says that ‘bombogenesis’ is a term used by meteorologists to explain a large storm system that undergoes rapid transformation over a 24-hour period.’ And that’s what all these expressions are about—how rapidly a severe weather system develops. These days our own weather boffins seem to have taken a liking to such explosive language—so we can expect to hear more it!

Argumentum ad populum There are bits of Latin that have made their way in the English language, and become familiar to people who never studied Latin, or (if they did) have forgotten most of it. We talk, for instance, about someone’s ‘alter ego’—meaning their ‘other self’ (the mask they put on, or the role they play, from time to time). We might talk about someone’s ‘bona fides’ meaning evidence of their good will and reliability. In the 1989 movie Dead Poets’ Society Robin Williams used the expression ‘carpe diem’—meaning ‘seize the day’ (make use of the opportunities around you). When an alcoholic suffers from the DTs most of know that’s an initialism from the Latin ‘delirium tremens’ (literally ‘delusions with trembling’). When we write ‘for example’ as ‘e.g.’ we know it’s short for a bit of Latin, although probably don’t remember the Latin words (‘exempli gratia’). Of course most of us know that ‘gratis’ means ‘free of charge’ and we probably remember it’s a Latin word. In police shows, detectives will talk about the criminal’s ‘modus operandi’ (‘method of operating’)—in fact, they’ll often reduce it to its initials, as the crook’s ‘MO.’ We know that ‘per capita’ means ‘per person’ or (more literally) ‘per head of population.’ There are lots of these. Well, the Oxford English Dictionary is suggesting that this is one that we should know: ‘argumentum ad populum.’ This, they say, means ‘An argument based on the (usually fallacious) assumption that because an idea or opinion is popular, it must be true or right.’ In other words, this is the claim that if most people believe it, it must be true. If most people believe the global climate is heading towards a catastrophe then it must be. No room for argument, the people have spoken. A 2017 book about UFOs said this: ‘About 36% of Americans believe that UFOs exist... But we must not let these polls lead us into the Argumentum ad populum fallacy..[which] tries to convince doubters that a claim is true solely because lots of people believe it.’ By the way, that’s why so-called ‘focus groups’ (looking for the opinions of the people) should never be trusted by politicians. (That, by the way, is a warning that will be steadily ignored!) So there you are—the Latin that captures this idea: ‘argumentum ad populum.’ That fallacy now has its proper, classical, label, and you can add it to rest of your little list of useful Latin. 

Sclerotic Writing about our economy in The Australian newspaper Geoff Chambers said: ‘productivity remains sclerotic.’ My reaction was the same as any other wordie—what a great word! So it looks like time to take a look at ‘sclerotic.’ Used in this figurative (metaphoric) way ‘sclerotic’ seems to mean ‘unmoving, unchanging, rigid’ (Oxford). But, obviously, there is a literal meaning somewhere in the background. If we go far enough back we find a Latin word sclērōticus and even further back than that a Greek word sklerotikos both with the same meaning: ‘having the property of hardening.’ But the reason the word exists in English is because of its use in medicine. From the very early days of medicine (from the 1500s) ‘sclerosis’ was the word used for ‘a morbid hardening of any tissue or structure.’ The form in which us civilians have (most likely) encountered this term is in the longer word ‘arteriosclerosis.’ This word was coined around 1860 to mean the abnormal hardening or thickening of the walls of arteries. I guess we know it because it has happened to us or to people we know. I remember one dietician I interviewed on my radio show who said that if you eat a lot of fatty food you can then ‘sit around and listen to your arteries harden.’ Yes, she was joking—but also making a point. It’s an odd fact that some medical terms become widely known to the rest of us, and some don’t. Why this happens to some bits of the medical language and not others I don’t know—but it does. And this is one of them. So, from the ever-present threat to our arteries we have learned this word ‘sclerotic.’ Which brings us back to Geoff Chambers, and his application of the word as an image to describe the Australian economy—or the productivity level at least. He was suggesting (I think) that productivity as what the wealth of the economy flows throw (just as blood flows through the arteries of the body) and that economic blood flow was being choked off by a ‘hardened’ or a ‘restricting’ of productivity. This hardened seemed to come (in his article) from such things as industrial relations laws that please the unions but make it harder to business in Australia. Lots of petty, bureaucratic regulations—red tape—has the same effect. With the result that ‘productivity remains sclerotic.’

Pakapoo ticket Here’s another expression that I’ve been asked about before, and now have another request for. And I’m happy to oblige. Any writing that is difficult to decipher was once labelled ‘a pakapoo ticket.’ It’s an expression that seems to have died out, but still I remember being told, as a schoolboy: ‘This exercise book looks like a pakapoo ticket, Richards.’ In other words, my book work looked untidy—a mass of scrawled and scribbled words that did not meet with the teacher’s approval. A punishment would, of course, be imposed: ‘You will write out 50 times: “I must do neater work in my exercise book from now on.”’ By the way, I must share with you the ingenuity of a classmate of mine, who was also given ‘lines’ to write out. He turned up the next morning to hand in the lines he had written, and said: ‘Sorry sir, I forgot what the line was I was supposed to write out, so I just thought of a line and I’ve written it 50 times. The line he had written was: ‘I am mad.’ Just three words, six letters. What a clever boy! Anyway, back to ‘pakapoo ticket.’ From that meaning of ‘untidy scribble’ it was extended to describe anything that was untidy or disorderly. The earliest citation for this sort of use is from Eric Lambert’s novel, based on his wartime experiences, called Twenty Thousand Thieves (1951) in which an officer complains that the platoon’s pay book ‘looks like a pakapoo ticket.’ The origin of the expression is a Chinese gambling game played with slips of paper marked with columns of Chinese characters. The earliest citation for this (original) use of the expression is from 1886, but it might have started earlier, perhaps on the goldfields where there were many Chinese diggers. Of course the Aussie diggers could not read these Chinese characters, so they’d look at these slips of paper, with neatly drawn Chinese characters, and just see a lot of scribble. To see ancient, and civilised, writing in that way was just plain ignorance on their part, but that’s how they saw these slips. The name for this gambling game may come from Cantonese pai ko p’iao meaning ‘white pigeon ticket.’ It seems that originally the winning ticket was picked out of a bowl by a specially trained white pigeon. But the English variation of this is an Aussie invention. ‘Pakapoo ticket’ is another distinctively Aussie contribution to the English language.