Kel's previous Ozwords of the day...
Mate From the News Corp website comes this report: A retail worker has been left ‘completely puzzled’ after a customer told her not to use a classic Aussie word ‘mate’ on the job. The worker was serving a customer when she was pulled up for using the word ‘mate’ after the customer claimed the term was ‘unprofessional’. That’s the report—and it ends with the question: when did the word ‘mate’ become unprofessional? That customer was wrong, and was undermining a great word that belongs at the heart of the Australian lexicon. Of course ‘mate’ was not coined here, but it has been used here in a distinctively Aussie way since the convict era (in fact, it was convicts who brought it here). The Australian National Dictionary calls it a ‘specific and extended use’ of the British word. The great John O’Grady (author of They’re a Weird Mob) explained that ‘mate’ can be used loosely as a general form of address for acquaintances and strangers. As in: g’day mate, righto mate, what can I do for you mate? And so on. It is perfect Aussie English, it belongs in the workplace, and it is certainly not unprofessional. ‘Mate’ is so important in Australian culture that it featured strongly in the works of Henry Lawson. One of his collections of short stories is called Joe Wilson’s Mates. And what Lawson wrote about has often been called ‘mateship.’ ‘Mate’ embodies in a single syllable the Australian characteristics of tolerance, friendship and informality. The reason you can use it as a universal greeting when your memory fails is the special position it holds in our language. It is a relational word that respects no barriers—and says our expectation is that we’ll get along and treat each other okay. That makes it a warm greeting even as you struggle to remember the name or place the face. ‘Mate’ does this without falling into the trap of meaningless American gush. Even a person you have not seen for years is still a mate when you bump into each other again – because relaxed acceptance of each other is the key component in the Australian notion of community. In Jon Cleary’s 1952 novel The Sundowners (it sold 3 million copies and was made into a movie) the concept of ‘mateship’ was used as the Aussie understanding of marriage. If your spouse is also your ‘mate’ (not in the breeding sense, but in the Aussie sense) then you will have a marathon marriage that goes the distance. What do you think? Are we in danger of losing the word ‘mate’? And of losing this important part of Aussie culture?
Brat I keep running into ‘brat’ as the trendiest word of the moment. The hyper-hip online Urban Dictionary seems to define it in negative terms. According to the Urban Dictionary being a ‘brat’ means being ‘submissive.’ That doesn’t sound like a good thing, does it? Here’s what their definition says (and, yes, this is supposed to be a English sentence)—‘brat’ means ‘A submissive that likes to push their dom’s buttons on purpose hoping that they’ll punish them.’ Clearly that is a definition that itself requires a bit of defining. Apparently a ‘dom’ is a ‘dominant’ partner, and ‘punish’ in that definition means ‘to have sex.’ But it still sounds as though (for Gen Z and other infants) this is a good thing to be, since the word is now ubiquitous. Dictionary.com. takes a totally different line from the Urban Dictionary and says that: ‘In modern pop culture, the word brat refers to someone who is confidently rebellious, unapologetically bold, and playfully defiant. This new definition celebrates individuality and a carefree attitude, often with a hint of sass and a love for fun. Being labelled “a brat” or “bratty” in this context is more of a compliment, recognizing a person’s ability to challenge norms and express themselves freely without concern for conventional expectations.’ So for them a ‘brat’ is not submissive but bold and defiant. Perhaps that’s why we find the latest hip bits of slang so confusing—even the people using them are not settled on what they mean. Of course, there is real word ‘brat’ that has been part of English since around 1513, originally just meaning ‘a child.’ Although the great Dr Johnson in his monumental dictionary said it was a ‘contemptuous’ name for a child. And in more recent memory ‘brat’ has come to mean ‘a child who behaves badly.’ And then the Collins Dictionary adds that a ‘brat pack’ is ‘a group of young people especially actors or writers, who are popular or successful at the moment.’ It seems to people of my generation an odd word to use—how do you get from an annoying, irritating, badly behaved child to mean popular or successful? The cognitive leap there seems enormous. Dictionary.com offers this explanation: ‘Historically, brat carried negative connotations, describing children who were unruly or spoiled. However, as societal views on self-expression and nonconformity shifted, the term began to acquire a more positive spin, especially within music and fashion circles.’ And according to the Merriam-Webster you don’t have to be a child to be a ‘brat’—just immature.
Subjective / Objective A reader (Tony) has asked me to unpack the meaning of these two labels: ‘subjective’ and ‘objective’—so, here goes. These two words have a range of meanings (or applications). The first is all about ‘point of view’—the point from which something is looked at. If you look at things ‘subjectively’ then you are looking from your point of view, from where you stand, and how they look to you—based on your preconceptions as well as what you can observe. That’s why the Longman Dictionary of Contemporary English can define ‘subjective’ in these words: ‘a statement, report, attitude etc that is subjective is influenced by personal opinion and can therefore be unfair.’ Clearly ‘objective’ is the opposite. An ‘objective’ point of view is seeing a situation the way it really is—the way it would appear to any observer who happened to be present. If what you say is ‘objective’ it is, in a sense, outside yourself—more than just the product of your mind. Mind you, ‘objective’ can also mean the target you aim at—the ‘object’ you are working towards. (This is why the English language can be so confusing.) But the range of meanings doesn’t stop there. ‘Subjective’ and ‘objective’ are also grammatical terms. A verb, as you know, is an action word. Many verbs consist of carrying an action from one to another. Such verbs (called ‘transitive’ verbs) say that someone (or something) did something. So ‘Tom kicked the ball’ is that kind of thing. The action is kicking, and it ‘travels’ from Tom to the ball. In that simple example ‘Tom’ is in the ‘subjective’ (also called the ‘nominative’) case, while ‘ball’ is in the ‘objective’ (or ‘accusative’) case. So a word is in the ‘subjective’ case if it is the subject of a verb, while a word is in the ‘objective’ case if it is the object of a verb. I’m just stopping for a moment to take a close look at you. Hmmm… I think your eyes are starting to glaze over. The next time you have an argument in the kitchen over whether to have the chicken or the pork tonight I doubt you’ll spend much time wondering about whether your sentences have nouns in the subjective case or the objective case. (In fact, you might just object to the pork, and subjectively prefer the chicken.) But I hope I’ve managed to cover those two words and answer whatever questions were in Tony’s mind. And if you lose the argument over the pork versus the chicken—don’t blame me, blame Tony.
Inflection point When US President Joe Biden gave his final address to the General Assembly of the United Nations he used the expression ‘inflection point.’ He said: ‘I truly believe we’re in another inflection point in human history.’ Now, I had come across ‘tipping point’ before, but not ‘inflection point’. A ‘tipping point’ is where a series of events has built up to the point where change cannot be stopped. A series of things happen that are pushing in the same direction, and then a moment is reached when the weight ‘tips the balance’ as it were, and so the ‘tipping point’ is reached and a major change happens. That much I understand. But I find ‘inflection point’ a bit more obscure. It seems to come from mathematics, from differential calculus and differential geometry. You might be able to cast your mind back to your school days, and those graphs we had to plot in maths classes. I think that’s what is meant here. And at a certain point the curve on the graph changes. The massive Merriam-Webster Third International Unabridged Dictionary offers a slightly cumbersome definition of an ‘inflection point’—which they say is, ‘a point on a curve that separates an arc concave upward from one concave downward and vice versa.’ Surely this can be put more simply by saying that the ‘inflection point’ is where the curve switches from doing down to going up (or the turn might be the other way—from going up to going down). We can (sort of) picture that. This means an ‘inflection point’ is the moment when significant change occurs, or may occur. The Merriam-Webster people add that the original meaning was far more technical. It came into use at the beginning at the 17th century in (as we have seen) mathematics. If you go to Wikipedia and type in ‘inflection point’ you will get all the high-level mathematics you could ever want! And what about Joe Biden? Is he right? Is this moment an ‘inflection point’? Joe said that ‘our task is to make sure that the forces holding us together are stronger than those that are pulling us apart.’ Mind you, I think it’s Joe’s own left-wing, highly divisive, ‘identity politics’ that is pulling us apart. Still, he has a point (an inflection point?) And it is time to choose fellowship and community over racism and division. Agreed?
Pumpkin spice A reader has asked me to explain an American expression that puzzles her: ‘pumpkin spice.’ And I understand her bewilderment—after all, pumpkins aren’t noticeably ‘spicy.’ Roast pumpkin has a wonderful, slightly sweet nutty flavour—but there is nothing to suggest that it’s some kind of spice, so—whence this term? Well, a bit of digging reveals that ‘pumpkin spice’ consists of a mixture of cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger and cloves—a mixture that is typically used to spice pumpkin pie. Ah, that’s where the pumpkin comes in! It’s not providing the spice; it’s the thing being spiced! Pumpkin pie is part of the tradition of Thanksgiving Day dinner in many American homes. By the way, our son-in-law makes pumpkin pie, and I can testify that it is a really nice nibble. In fact, more than just a nibble—I’ll have another piece please. This expression (and this mix of ingredients) giving us ‘pumpkin spice’ has been around since at least 1931. But the spice mixture is leaving the pumpkin pie behind and taking on a new life of its own. It is now being used to flavour a whole lot of food items. The Merriam-Webster Dictionary people say that ‘cereal, donuts, coffee, biscuits, and so, so, so, so, so more’ are being served up with ‘pumpkin spice.’ (By the by, that list comes from the Merriam-Webster people themselves—including the five ‘so’ exclamations. Clearly they are fans.) The latest addition to the list of consumables being given the ‘pumpkin spice’ treatment is (I am told) latte. Now, I’m not a big fan of flavoured coffee. If you want your coffee to taste of vanilla or caramel by all means go for it—but I’m pretty happy drinking coffee that tastes like coffee. However, I understand that not everyone agrees with me—and now ‘pumpkin spice’ latte is an option (at least in America). One other snippet of information you might like—you don’t need to whip up your own mixture of cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger and cloves (and hope you get the proportions right). ‘Pumpkin spice’ now comes in pre-mixed packets in America—and has done since the 1930s. And if you are making pumpkin pie, you don’t need to use a lot of it: a recipe in a 1937 periodical published by the (American) Brotherhood of Railroad Trainmen, for example, calls for ¾ of a teaspoon of the tasty, aromatic stuff for one pie. So, for the reader who asked—that’s what ‘pumpkin spice’ is.
Black hole I don’t often do the language of science in these columns, but recently a particularly large ‘black hole’ has been discovered, and I’ve been asked about the expression. The Oxford English Dictionary explains that ‘black hole’ means: ‘A region of space within which the gravitational field is so strong that no matter or radiation can escape, except perhaps by quantum-mechanical tunnelling (also known as ‘Hawking radiation’), and which is thought to be due to a very dense, compact mass inside the region.’ Then the good old Oxford adds a useful explanatory note: ‘Black holes are thought to be formed when a massive star exhausts its nuclear fuel and collapses under its own gravity. If the star is massive enough it will collapse and produce a singularity. Before this stage is reached, within a certain radius (the event horizon) light itself becomes trapped and the object becomes invisible.’ Already we have two other scientific expressions that need explaining. First, ‘Hawking radiation’ we are told is ‘the process by which particle–antiparticle pairs form spontaneously in the vicinity of a black hole, usually recombining but sometimes with one of the particles being absorbed by the black hole while the other is radiated away, causing the hole to lose mass over time.’ No, I don’t understand a word of it either. Which is why I so rarely write about the language of science. Can we do any better with a ‘singularity’? For this the Oxford offers a deceptively simple definition: ‘A region in space-time at which matter is infinitely dense.’ I was reading that definition to a colleague, who commented ‘sounds like my brother-in-law—infinitely dense.’ The term ‘black hole’ dates back to 1964, when it made its first appearance in a science journal. Around 30 years after that date I was chatting to a scientist friend who startled me by saying ‘about half of all scientists believe there are black holes—the rest are not yet persuaded.’ You see what happens? We read these expressions, they become part of the language and of popular understanding (sort of) and then we discovered that not all scientists are convinced. That surprised me. After all, by 1979 the Disney company had made a movie called Black Hole. Hey! We’d seen one! So they had to exist! I guess science doesn’t work like that. This new discovery is a ‘supermassive black hole’ 7.5 billion light years from Earth. Research suggests it spans 23 million light years in length, making it impressively big—the largest yet discovered. I should add that sometimes this scientific term is borrowed and used figuratively—a project that keeps losing money might be called a ‘financial black hole.’ As for the real thing—when one forms in my backyard, then I’ll worry about it.
New slang I’ve often made the point that slang is the fastest changing part of any language. New slang words are invented (and dropped) faster than the real working bits in any other part of the English language. I’m following on here from Nikki Gemmel’s recent column in The Weekend Australian about slang. Yesterday I discussed rhyming slang, today the non-rhyming kind. Nikki reports on the bloke who can’t hold his grog as being a ‘Cadbury’ (all it takes is a glass and half). And she says that one of her readers sent a list of these clever and inventive bits of Aussie slang—some of them still fairly new. A lazy worker can be called a number of things: a ‘Harvey Norman’ (three years with no interest); a ‘wheelbarrow’ (doesn’t work unless pushed); ‘cordless’ (charges all night and only works for two hours); ‘bushranger’ (holds everyone else up); or ‘Perth’ (three hours behind everyone else). That last one is new to me, and I think it’s great. Nikki did miss a couple of other favourites. Someone whose brain never quite gets into top gear (or who has kangaroos in his top paddock) can be called a ‘morphine’ (a slow working dope), or a ‘Milo’ (there are two types of flavouring powder you can add to milk, either ‘Milo’ or ‘Quick’ and if someone is not quick, then they must be…). One of Nikki’s new favourites, she tells us, is ‘sittervising.’ You’re supposed to be supervising your kids in the playground, but instead of hovering you are just sitting watching. (Mind you, with many young parents today they’re not even watching—they are on their smart phones constantly!) Then there are the endless new inventions pouring out of Gen Z—such as ‘rizz’ for someone with charisma, GOAT for ‘Greatest of All Time’, and ‘fit check’ for the act of reviewing one’s outfit (am I dressed right? will I impress?). Then there’s ‘Skibidi’ pronounced like ‘skippity’ which (I am told) has no inherent meaning. It can be used as a wacky adjective to mean cool, bad or dumb, depending on the context, according to the hyper-hip online Urban Dictionary. It can also be used as a way to start a joking conversation in reference to absurd slang culture. In fact, with some of these supposedly new ‘slang words’ from either Gen Z or Gen Alpha I sometimes suspect we are being pranked. It often looks to me like a huge joke being played on the older folk. And the big laugh comes when one of the oldies try to use these supposedly new hip words. Don’t try it. Very uncool!
Rhyming slang I’m always on the lookout for language topics that bob up in the pages of our newspapers, and recently I noticed Nikki Gemmell (writing in The Weekend Australia) raising some good points about slang. She began by taking a squiz at rhyming slang (by the way, ‘squiz’ is an Australian coinage—a combination of ‘squint’ and ‘quiz’, meaning a quizzical look). Her starting point was TV host Larry Emdur becoming part of the language. When he accepted his Gold Logie he revealed that his children are chuffed that his name has officially become a bit of Australian rhyming slang. Well, ‘officially’ is pushing it a bit too far—there is no such thing as ‘official’ rhyming slang. But, in the normal (unofficial) way he seems to have got there. If you are on a ‘Larry’ that means you are on a ‘bender’ (‘Larry Emdur’ = ‘bender’). That’s how rhyming slang is meant to work—the rhyming word is dropped, and only the first (non-rhyming) word is spoken. It doesn’t always happen—but it is how this stuff is supposed to work. If something is not working and is a complete mess you might say ‘That’s a real Barry’—meaning a real shocker (‘Barry Crocker’ = ‘shocker’). In this way Larry Emdur and Barry Crocker are among that small select group of Aussies whose names are part of the language. Also in there are ‘Doing a Harold’—doing a bolt. This comes from former prime minister Harold Holt. Not only from the rhyme between ‘Holt’ and ‘bolt’ but also from his disappearance while spearfishing off Cheviot Beach (Victoria) in 1967. But most names on this distinguished list are there simply for the sound of their surname. Which is why you call undies your Reggie’s (‘Reg Grundy’ = ‘undy’). Nikki Gemmel says there’s also a Rosemary Follet (wallet)—although this is one I hadn’t encountered before. And much older names also score a place. Having a ‘captain’ is having a look (‘Captain Cook’ = ‘look’). Then there’s Adrian Quist—a great Australian tennis player of an earlier generation. If you are ‘Adrian’ then you must be… you can work out the rhyming word for yourself. Nikki says that your finger is your ‘Mal Meninga.’ Sadly, she makes the mistake of thinking that ‘Buckley’s chance’ comes from an escaped convict who (miraculously) survived years in the bush. Totally wrong. We know this because the dates don’t fit the appearance of the expression in our language. It actually comes from the name of an old (late 1800s) Melbourne department store: Buckley and Nun. When Larry came out with his statement at the Logies I was interviewed by (and quoted by) The Daily Telegraph. The point that I made is the rhyming slang is still alive and well, and still being invented and re-invented here in Australia (the most colourful branch of English in the world).
First nations I think I’ve spoken about his before, but I need to get back to it now. A viewer wrote to Peta Credlin asking me to discuss this—so I will. We need to begin with the basic background. The term 'First Nations' was coined by Indian chiefs in Ontario, Canada, in 1980. It seems to have been adopted by Aboriginal activists in Australia around 1995. It is what I call an 'aggrandisement' expression—trying to make stone age tribal life in Australia before 1788 sound far grander than it ever was. You know that little voice inside your head that says: ‘Such things should never be said out loud?’ You know that voice? Well, I don’t have one! So, I’m going to say out loud what common sense is shouting at us, but no one else is game to mutter. Before 1788 there were no ‘nations’ here—there were stone-age, hunter-gather, nomadic tribes. They hadn’t discovered metal working, they hadn’t invented the wheel, they had no written language. They were not ‘nations’ in any sense of the word. Calling them ‘nations’ is absurd, over-the-top, vastly embellished aggrandisement. The other part of the expression is also troublesome. The word ‘First’ is used in order to belittle everyone else. It is a claim of priority, of superiority. It is used to imply that everyone else is second best, or second rate. Can you imagine one Australian saying to another: ‘My family migrated here in the 1950s, your family only arrived in the 1980s—so, I’m First, and you’re not!’ That would be absurd, wouldn’t it? But that is exactly what Aboriginal Australians who claim to be ‘First Nations’ are actually saying. When your ancestors lived here is irrelevant to the life you live today. The truth is that Australia is like a three-legged stool—it is built on these three things: (1) Indigenous heritage; (2) British foundation; and (3) Migrant character. That analysis comes from Tony Abbot—and it is spot on. No one is ‘first’ or ‘second’ or ‘third’—everyone is Australian. It’s your character and your contribution that matters, not who your great-grandparents were. But there’s a further problem. Under its entry about this term, the Oxford English Dictionary (most unusually) has a political note: ‘Usage of this term is often associated with an acknowledgement of Indigenous sovereignty and recognition of Indigenous rights (esp. land rights) in post-colonial contexts.’ In other words, the expression ‘First Nations’ is a highly political term. Using the expression ‘First Nations’ amounts to endorsing a particular political ideology. And yet it is used repeatedly by people who (in their ignorance) don’t understand this, or seem to have never thought through the implications of dividing Australians into ‘First’ class and lower classes, based entirely on a person’s family tree. Now, have I missed something here? Is there another way of looking at this? I am happy for you to drop me a line and put me right, if I’ve got this wrong.
Are rivers persons? I have recently come across the worst case of language vandalism I’ve encountered for many years. Namely, the claim that ‘rivers’ are ‘persons.’ According to a recent report in some countries rivers are bring granted ‘legal personhood.’ This report says that in New Zealand, the Whanganui River has been granted ‘legal personhood’, as has Canada’s Magpie River. In India, both the Ganges and Yamuna Rivers are classified as a ‘living person.’ Here in Australia (again, according to this report) the Yarra River holds the legal status of a ‘living entity.’ The report quotes a ‘water law and policy expert’ named Erin O’Donnell who says, ‘The “living entity” is a formal acknowledgement in law that the river and its lands are alive, which is profound.’ It strikes me as being profoundly stupid! Inanimate things (rocks, dirt, water) are not ‘alive’ in any sense of that word in the English language. The Oxford says ‘alive’ can only apply to a human being, or an animal, or a plant.’ But the article quotes O’Donnell as saying this ‘living entity’ classification for the Yarra is ‘like recognising that animals are alive and sentient for the purposes of animal welfare...’ She insists that just as we acknowledge animals as having needs, and feelings, ‘So we’re acknowledging the same thing with the river.’ Well, Erin O’Donell may be acknowledging that—but most Australians are not. Common sense is not. And any proper use of the English language does not. O’Donell says the Yarra River ‘is a living being with whom we are in a relationship.’ Is it just me? Or does that claim strike you as being utterly unhinged? Apparently this ‘living entity’ label was given to the Yarra River in a 2017 act of the Victorian parliament called the ‘Yarra River Protection (Wilip-Gin Birrarung Murron) Act 2017’. (This is also the first act of an Australian parliament to be co-titled in an Aboriginal language.) The Cambridge Dictionary says that the word ‘river’ means ‘a natural flow of water’ while the word ‘person’ means ‘a man, woman or child.’ The Oxford English Dictionary says the same—a person is ‘an individual human being, a man, woman, or child.’ If we are showing respect to words we would never say that a ‘natural flow of water’ is a man, woman or child.’ At least the Victorian legislation doesn’t pretend that the Yarra River is a ‘person’, it just says ‘entity’ (that is ‘something that exists’). Although Erin O’Donnell is reading a huge amount into that, and claiming this means it is a ‘living being.’ It’s time to go to the barricades, and fight to the finish, to protect the language. Words have real meaning in the real world—and that truth and reality must be defended. Or Maybe I should play the same game? And call ‘language’ a ‘living being’? Should I claim the English language is a ‘person’? No! I don’t want to walk that far down Stupid Street!
Cyclone When there was a huge storm, and a massive dump of rain, in North Carolina, the Merriam-Webster Dictionary website was inundated with people looking up the word ‘cyclone.’ The reason is that this a word not commonly used for such storms in the United States. More often they are called a ‘hurricane.’ Which raises the question of what (if anything) is the difference between a ‘cyclone’, a ‘hurricane’, and a ‘typhoon’? The answer seems to be—the part of the world in which they happen! Each of those three words names a powerful storm. ‘Cyclone’ is the name introduced in 1848 by Henry Piddington. He was an English sea captain who sailed around the East Indies and China and later settled in Bengal. He became well known for his pioneering studies in the meteorology of tropical storms. He noticed the circular winds around a calm centre recorded by ships caught in storms and coined the name ‘cyclone’ for these in 1848—as a general term for all storms or atmospheric disturbances in which the wind has a circular or whirling course. (‘Cyclone’ comes from the Greek word for a ‘circle’ or ‘moving in a circle.’) However, as long ago as the 1500s European explorers applied the Spanish word huracan to describe the storms that battered their ships in the Caribbean. So from the mid-1800s there were two words to name these violent, circulating storms—when they arose in the Caribbean they were called ‘hurricanes’, but when the arose anywhere else they were called ‘cyclones.’ Because most of the violent storms of this nature that hit America come up from the Caribbean, the Americans are in the habit of calling them ‘hurricanes.’ Why the US weather bureau decided to label this recent one in North Carolina a ‘cyclone’ is unclear (perhaps it swept in from some other direction than the Caribbean?) And that is why exactly the same kind of violent storm here in Australia is always called a ‘cyclone’—because they arise south of the equator, and have nothing to do with the West Indies! The name depends on the place. So, what about ‘typhoon’? Again, it’s all about location. When these storms arise in the area stretching for the South China Sea across to India they are called ‘typhoons.’ This word seems to have come from a Chinese expression tai fung (tai means ‘big’ and fung means ‘wind’). And there is another word in the ancient Persian language of urdu— ṭūfān—which may have played a role in forming our word ‘typhoon’ (ṭūfān means ‘turn around—which is what these winds do, very fast!) So, there you are, three names for exactly the same weather phenomenon—each belonging to its own part of the world.
New words The Merriam-Webster people have added 200 new words and definitions to their magisterial dictionary. “Our lexicographers monitor a huge range of sources to select which words and definitions to add,” says Peter Sokolowski, Editor at Large for Merriam-Webster. “From academic journals to social media, these give us a very thorough view of the English language.” Here’s a small selection (with my comments):
Touch grass—to participate in normal activities in the real world especially as opposed to online experiences and interactions. (Needed because so many people live so much of their lives out of touch with reality. I nice expression.)
For You Page (or FYP)—a social media feed that contains personalized content based on the user’s interests. (Which they know because you have no privacy online, where everything you buy and every page you read is being watched all the time.)
Beach read—a usually light work of escapist fiction (such as a thriller or romance.) A newish expression for an old phenomenon (the holiday read).
International Bitterness Unit—used to assess the concentration of a bitter compound found in hops in order to provide information about how bitter a beer is.
Heat index—a value derived from a calculation using air temperature and relative humidity. In other words, the bit in the forecast under the temperature number that says ‘feels like…’
IDGAF—highly offensive set letters used in texts to me “I don’t give a f***’ Knowing how offensive this is, you can avoid the mistake of falling into using it (and you can take offence when someone else uses it).
MAGA—the Donald Trump slogan (Make America Great Again) has now found it’s way into the dictionary. (Getting into the dictionary is the ultimate sign of having a serious impact.)
Late capitalism—means the capitalism that started late in the 20th century with globalization and the dominance of multi-national global corporations (so powerful not even governments can control them). Doesn’t sound like any form of capitalism to me, late or otherwise. In fact, it’s a return to a medieval system of ‘mercantilism’ (dominance without competition).
A lot of the new words added to the Merriam-Webster have been around for a while and the dictionary is just catching up: expressions such as—far left, far right, creepy-crawly, cash grab, and the British word for a kiss ‘snog.’ The rest of the list of new words can be found on the Merriam-Webster website.
Memory hole A reader (David) has drawn my attention to the expression ‘memory hole.’ He says that this is becoming quite frequently used by political commentators. He adds that, ‘This term is definitely new and not needed.’ Well, I think I disagree. When you look at the history and the meaning of ‘memory hole’ it might turn out to be very useful, and play a worthwhile part in the modern world. The expression ‘memory hole’ was coined by the brilliant George Orwell in his grim (and prophetic) novel Nineteen Eighty-Four (published as long ago as 1949). In that book ‘memory hole’ refers to an incinerator where documents are destroyed, rather than stored. The central character in that book is Winston Smith who works for a government department called The Ministry of Truth. Winston’s job was to purge the written records of anything contrary to the mandates, visions, and approval of his government. Orwell spends a relatively long time describing the memory holes in Nineteen Eighty-Four. They are ‘oblong slits protected by a wire grating.’ They are everywhere, not just in all the rooms of the building in which Winston works, but also ‘at short intervals in every corridor.’ Sadly, it still happens—and happens for real in our world today. When people claim Australia’s history is all bad, all bleak, and all horrible—they have fed all the good things that colonialism brought into the ‘memory hole’ to erase them. When they pretend that land was stolen they have fed the truth into a ‘memory hole.’ Land was actually developed—virgin bushland was developed into productive farmland to feed a nation. And temporary, fragile bush humpies were replaced by permanent buildings—to house a nation. And Indigenous Australians were given (free of charge, as a gift) a developed economy, engineering, a written language, democracy, the rule of law, trial by jury, the presumption of innocence and the precious gift of being automatically made British subjects (just like every other human being living in colonial Australia). When the record is distorted in this way, then half the story had been fed into the ‘memory hole.’ Mind you, the expression can also turn up from time to time in conversations. For example, someone might say, ‘down the memory hole’ to explain why they can’t remember something. More often, however, the phrase is related to politics and may be used when someone appears to be attempting to erase the public’s memory of an event.
Tartrazine The lexicographers at the Merriam-Webster dictionary tell me that one of the most looked-up words recently has been this word ‘tartrazine’—because of a bizarre scientific experiment. I’ll you about that in a moment, but first the word itself. ‘Tartrazine’ is recorded in English from 1894. It was coined to name ‘A fast and brilliant dye-stuff of rich orange yellow’ (Oxford English Dictionary). The Merriam-Webster’s own definition sounds a bit more scientific: ‘a yellow pyrazolone acid dye used chiefly in dyeing wool and silk, in making organic pigments, and in colouring foods and drugs.’ Apparently the word ‘tartrazine’ comes from the old name given by French chemist Antoine Lavoisier (1753-1794) to nitrogen. It seems that the ‘-az-’ in the middle of ‘tartrazine’ comes from ‘azote’ this old name for nitrogen, which tells us that ‘tartrazine’ contains nitrogen in some way (perhaps as a colouring agent, since a related compound is the colouring matter in litmus paper). And I have strayed way off language, and into chemistry—where I don’t feel confident at all. So, let’s move on to this weird experiment that has made ‘tartrazine’ such a looked-up word. For reasons known only to themselves, researches at Stamford University massaged a solution of tartrazine onto the stomachs, scalps and hind legs of mice. But there was method behind their madness. They were doing more than just massaging their pet laboratory mice to fill the time until coffee break. We know this because this chemical made the opaque skin of the mice temporarily transparent. The parts that had been massaged with tartrazine became what the scientists called ‘a living window’ into the inner workings of the bodies of the mice—showing the branching blood vessels, muscle fibres, and contractions of the gut. Sort of like X-rays, I suppose, but without the radiation, and a moving picture as the body functioned in real time. This has been reported in the journal Science. The Merriam-Webster folk say this is the sort of experiment that ‘could have been plucked from the pages of science fiction.’ Well, yes. Just a bit more tartrazine and we might have had science fiction’s famous Invisible Man. Or, in this case, I suppose, Invisible Mouse. There clearly is some deeper, scientific purpose in making the skin of mice transparent with tartrazine, and one day we may find out what it is!
Respect A reader—Kevin—wrote to say: ‘Could you throw some thoughts and interpretation of the word Respect? It appears to be lost. Cheers and I enjoy your Ozwords.’ So, Kevin raises an interesting question: has ‘respect’ been lost in our society. To answer that, let’s start with the history of the word. ‘Respect’ turns up in English from the late 1300s. Behind it is a classical Latin word respectus—meaning ‘the action of looking round, or back, with consideration and regard.’ The ‘re-’ part means ‘again’ so ‘back’ or ‘again’ while the ‘-spect’ is connected to words such as ‘spectator’—that is, the notion of ‘looking.’ So, if you show respect (in our modern sense) you are looking with admiration at someone or something. The Oxford English Dictionary tells me ‘respect’ is among the 1,000 most commonly used words in English. But is it the case, as Kevin suggests, that the use of ‘respect’ is being lost in our society today? We are certainly often told that we have much less ‘respect’ these days for our governments, for the media, for the institutions of our society, than was once the case. So, if they have lost our respect—what, exactly, has been lost? The Longman Dictionary of Contemporary English tells me that ‘admiration’ is an important part of ‘respect.’ When Zali Steggall stands up in the federal parliament and calls Peter Dutton a ‘racist’ what is our response? Peter Dutton in his media appearances seems to be a politely-spoken and thoughtful person, and we know he has explicitly denounced racism. So it’s Zali Steggall who loses our ‘respect’ (our admiration) for her attack. But do we also lose a bit our respect for the institution of parliament itself? When during question time the opposition asks the government a string of questions about the hot topic of the day—perhaps about supporters of Hamas being allowed to enter Australia as refugees—and the government blusters but fails to actually answer any of the questions, is it the whole institution of parliament that we lose that sense of importance, admiration and respect for? In a court case brought by a trans-person against a women’s’ website if a judge rules that a man can become a woman—do we lose respect for the courts and the institution of law? When elected parliamentary representatives of the Greens political party stand with violent demonstrators do we start to lose our respect for the whole profession of politics? I can see the point that Kevin is making in his email: our system is built on ‘respect’ (in the classical sense of the word) and there is much happening in our modern world that could easily erode that respect. Or am I being too harsh?
Principle / principal A reader (John) sent an email saying: ‘how did we arrive at the situation of having 2 identical sounding words, principle and principal, with completely different meanings? I'm not always 100% sure which applies to which. It's just never made much sense to me at all.? I promised John a proper answer, unpacking both those words. So, here it is. Firstly, ‘principle’ means ‘A fundamental truth or proposition on which others depend’ (Oxford English Dictionary). In other words, our ‘principles’ are the foundation—the fundamental truths and values on which we stand. Or, as Groucho Marx famously said: ‘Those are my principles. If you don’t like them… I’ve got others.’ His joke works because there are some things that are so foundational that we cannot abandon them or act against them (to do so would violate our conscience). ‘Principle’ came into English from a French source word (in the 1300s), but in the background is the classical Latin word principium. In Middle French the source word meant the basic, fundamental source from which reasoning begins. So again, ‘principle’ is about foundations. However, the Oxford notes that: ‘In modern use, especially from the 20th cent. onwards, misspellings of the noun as principal are common.’ So, John’s question is a good one—since the confusion he reports is widespread. And the spelling ‘principal’ in English has for a long time meant ‘the chief’ or ‘the head’ or ‘of the first rank.’ That’s why schoolboys dreaded being sent to the principal’s office to be disciplined over some offence—because the principal was the most important person in the school: the head, the chief, the one at the top of the ladder. Many years ago when I was in high school our nickname for the principal was ‘the boss.’ The second word ‘principal’ also comes from Latin via French (also in the 1300s) but in this case the Latin word means something like ‘the most important part.’ In other words, if ‘principle’ means: ‘the foundation, the rock bottom on which we stand’ then ‘principal’ means (figuratively) the opposite: that which is at the top, at the head of the structure built on our foundational principles. So there is a clear intended difference between the two. In deciding which spelling to choose the question to ask yourself is this one: is this foundational, or is this the peak, the top? If you are the ‘principal’ in a legal matter it may mean that you are mainly liable for the debt that is in the dispute. In an argument you could say ‘the principal question to settled is…’ meaning the top, or the main, question at issue. But if you said, ‘that violates our principles…’ you are saying that there is a threat to the values and beliefs that are foundational, upon which you stand. So, although they look and sound so similar—‘principal’ means ‘top’ and ‘principle’ means bottom.