Signed in as:
filler@godaddy.com
Kel's previous Ozwords of the day...
Accents When we speak English is it fair to say that some accents are better than others? I remember when the late Clive James talked to me on radio about his success in Britain, he said the British judge people by their class accent and being Australian really helped—because they couldn’t work out how to classify the Australian voice. In years gone by the BBC was the home of voices that spoke in a ‘BBC accent’—meaning Standard Southern English (also called ‘RP’ meaning Received Pronunciation). Some time ago the BBC decided its voices needed to represent all of the British Isles and so hired broadcasters with regional accents from all over the UK. But this (we are told) has now gone so far the BBC rejects anyone who speaks RP on the grounds that they ‘sound too posh.’ (I remember when I joined NewsRadio at the ABC Philip Adams told me I had ‘poshed it up no end!’) Veteran BBC broadcaster Edward Stoughton has called for a truce in what has been dubbed the accent wars at the broadcaster saying that ‘clarity should not be confused with class.’ Stourton, who co-hosts World at One on BBC Radio 4, wrote in the Radio Times ‘clarity and authority’ are important and ‘it’s easy to confuse those qualities with poshness; easy but wrong.’ Writing in The Spectator Charles Moore says: ‘An educated accent is not the same as an upper-class accent, but it does carry a class register—the tone of people who have encountered what Matthew Arnold called “the best that is thought and known”.’ What about accents here in Australia? When I first joined the ABC (many, many years ago) we were told at our induction session there are three Australian accents: Broad Australian, Middle Australian, and Educated Australian. And it was assumed that the population divided up roughly equally between them. Today my impression is that ‘Middle Australian’ has spread out and is spoken by the vast majority of us, with only small (and shrinking) portion of the population speaking either Broad Australian or Educated Australian. And I agree with Ed Stoughton that accent matters more in radio and television than it does in many other areas of life. He is also correct to say that on radio and television what really matters is ‘clarity and authority.’ What are your thoughts on the accents you hear these days—especially on radio and television?
Bacteria These are nasty little things that can make us sick or infect open wounds. The word ‘bacteria’ is the plural of another Latin word bacterium—although it is hard to imagine it ever being used in the singular, since these little things always swarm in large numbers. We need to think of ‘bacteria’ as gangs rather than individuals. There was a time when this word was on the ‘popular’ list of the Merriam-Webster lexicographers because it had become one of the most looked-up words on their website. And the reason for all that looking was rather disturbing. When it comes to ‘bacteria’ you would expect that cleaning products do the job of getting rid of them. So, what would you think of a cleaning product that instead of getting rid of bacteria was full of them? Not much, I would think. The New York Times had a report (from a journalist named Christine Chung) saying that: ‘Clorox (and I presume that’s the name of the American cleaning product in question) is voluntarily recalling about 37 million bottles of pine scented Pine-Sol because the cleaning products may contain bacteria that can cause serious infections in people with weakened immune systems, the Consumer Product Safety Commission said.’ It’s one of those odd news stories that leave you scratching your head. If this was a cleaning product, filled with strong cleaning chemicals, how did any bacteria—once they got in there—survive? Why didn’t the chemicals kill off the bacteria? Instead of which these little bacteria seem to have been swimming around in the stuff having the time of their little lives. Puzzling.
Shrapnel Two days ago I wrote about the origin of the word ‘grenade.’ In response a reader has asked me to explain the source of the word ‘shrapnel.’ The connection is a good one, since what makes grenades so deadly in battle these days is the shrapnel—the flying pieces of sharp metal that the grenade’s explosion sprays all over the place. It is the shrapnel rather than the explosion itself that causes most of the death and injury. Grenades designed to splinter into deadly shrapnel have been used in combat since 1901. But the idea of explosive devices designed to blow deadly bits of metal far and wide is much older than that. And here is the interesting bit—the word ‘shrapnel’ comes from a man’s name. Henry Shrapnel (1761-1842) was a British army officer who fought in the Napoleonic wars and invented the ‘shrapnel shell’ which was (fairly obviously!) named after him. In 1784 he began to experiment with hollow cannonballs filled with lead shot that burst in mid-air. These rather nasty things are called ‘anti-personnel’ weapons, because they don’t aim to blow up buildings (or ships) but to cut down people. He rose to the rank of lieutenant general on 10 January 1837. He joins a long list of people whose names have become words in the English language (technically they become ‘eponyms’): sandwich (from John Montagu, 4th Earl of Sandwich); diesel (from Rudolf Diesel who invented—guess what!); boycott (from Irish landowner Charles Boycott); biro (from Laszlo Biro who inspired the ballpoint pen); guillotine (invented as a painless method of execution by Dr Joseph Guillotin); and a host of others. And we now know that Henry Shrapnel belongs on that list.
Flummox A short while ago there was a news story saying that residents of a small Queensland town were flummoxed after six mysterious metal spheres washed ashore on Forrest Beach. The unmarked objects, which resembled oversized silver basketballs, prompted police to close off the area amid concerns that they could be explosive. Several days later, Australia’s space agency announced that the spheres appeared to be pressure vessels from a space launch vehicle. An interesting enough little story (and one that conspiracy theories could have fun with!)—but what caught my attention was this strange word ‘flummox.’ You and I have often used this, but have we ever given any thought to where such a strange word came from? So, let’s check it out. The verb ‘to flummox’ means ‘To bewilder, confuse, confound, perplex, disconcert.’ It’s recorded from 1837, and the first person to use it was Charles Dickens in The Pickwick Papers. But where did Dickens get it from? No one is exactly sure. Given his genius it is possible Dickens just made up the word—perhaps based on other imitative or expressive formulations he had heard. Somewhere in background behind ‘flummox’ there may be (the Oxford Dictionary suggests) an English regional dialect word. They refer to some of the odd local dialect words from Herefordshire, Gloucestershire, South Cheshire, and Sheffield—such words as ‘flummocks’ (which meant to maul or mangle), ‘flummock’ (which meant to make untidy or disordered) and a similar word that meant to confuse or bewilder. The lexicographers at the Oxford comment that ‘The formation seems to be onomatopoeic, expressive of the notion of throwing down roughly and untidily.’ And it seems that out of these verbal threads floating around the place Dickens gave us ‘flummox’ (his spelling). And we’ve had it ever since.
Grenade The news report said that drugs and a number of weapons including grenades were seized during a police raid on an alleged safe house in the Sydney suburb of Glenfield. (All gang related stuff—organised crime now seems to think of Sydney as ‘home’!) But that report got me thinking about this word ‘grenade.’ We know what it means (we’ve been watching war movies since we were kids)—but where did this word come from? Why are small, hand-thrown, explosive devices called ‘grenades’? When I started my research the first thing I discovered is just how old this word (and this kind of device) is. The earliest recorded mention of the word ‘grenade’ in the Oxford English Dictionary is from around 1591. But why are these nasty little things called ‘grenades’? It seems to come from a word (or a group of related words) found in French, Spanish, and Portuguese meaning ‘pomegranate.’ And when you think about it, these small, hand-held explosives are (very roughly) the size and shape of a pomegranate fruit. Apparently the Chinese first had the idea of gunpowder filled ceramic bowls that could be ignited and thrown by soldiers more than a thousand years ago. The idea seems to have caught on in Europe by the 1400s—although how common they were is unclear. By the mid-17th century, infantry known as ‘grenadiers’ began to emerge in the armies of Europe, who specialized in shock and close quarters combat, mostly with the usage of grenades. (It had never occurred to me that the famous Grenadier Guards were originally named after the hand grenades they were trained to throw.) And the ‘Mills Bomb’ (the first modern fragmentation grenade) was used in the trenches by 1915 in the First World War. Personally, I’m not fond of pomegranates—all those seeds! —but even worse are those nasty little grenades found in a Sydney house (all that shrapnel!)
The Deniliquin Dictionary This is an Aussie slang dictionary (on Instagram) created by Lyndon Christie. He told The Australian newspaper that, ‘Back in Covid I, like many city folks, retreated back to the comforts of the country where I grew up… While I was out there, I discovered a love for Aussie language.’ And it’s those things he discovered that he has recorded in The Deniliquin Dictionary. For those who don’t know, Deniliquin is a town in the Riverina district of New South Wales. Many of the terms discovered and recorded by Lyndon Christie are wonderful bits of Aussie verbal inventiveness. Here are some examples:
RSL tan—a flushed face from drinking too much beer.
Sugarcane champagne—a rum and coke.
Shang Hilux—a BYD electric ute.
Bachelor’s handbag—a roast chicken from Coles or Woolies.
I’m as rough as a builder’s estimate—feeling hungover
Dubbo dinner-jacket—a flannelette shirt.
Don’t piss on me boots and tell me it’s raining—don’t lie to me.
Sweating like a Millennial with a mortgage—feeling really crushed.
Seaweed—a lazy worker, floats around a does bugger all.
Skinny tinnie—low carb beer.
Lung lolly—cigarette.
Bogan missile—a Jetstar aircraft.
Rage Rover—a Ford Raptor pickup truck.
Psycho Espresso—a long-black coffee.
Wanker’s Waistcoat—a black, puffy vest.
There you have 15 of the findings of Lyndon Christie. He says he spent his teens in Muswellbrook and Gunnedah, so why he decided to call his collection of Aussie slang ‘the Deniliquin Dictionary’ I don’t know. But whatever he calls it, I’m impressed. He clearly has a good ear for how we Aussies speak, and so here’s a vote of thanks to Lyndon for recording some of it.
Energy poverty In 1959 a report to the US Congress contained the expression ‘energy poverty’—and it has been part of the English language ever since. The Oxford English Dictionary says it means: ‘The condition of being unable to afford or obtain sufficient energy resources to fulfil the basic needs of a household or society.’ In particular it means a lack of access to modern energy services in the home. When it was coined it was only ever applied to developing countries that lacked a modern energy infrastructure. These days, in the 21st century, ‘energy poverty’ applies to people living in developed countries in the western world. In countries such as Britain—and here in Australia—people who are struggling on or below the poverty line can easily suffer from ‘energy poverty.’ When, on a winter’s night, a pensioner has to choose between either heating the house or eating dinner—they are suffering from ‘energy poverty.’ As you know, energy prices have skyrocketed in Australia since the election of the Albanese Labor government. Elected on a promise to reduce power bills by $275, instead their actions have increased power bills by something closer to a thousand dollars. Teals, Greens, and Labor voting rich people barely notice this. They continue to live in comfort with no difficult decisions to make about using power. For people with limited resources the cost of energy creates a problem that they need to wrestle with. But for the poor in Australia it creates another level of poverty— ‘energy poverty.’ Energy Minister Chris Bowen’s transition to ‘renewable power’ is dragging at least some people in Australia down to the level of a poverty-ridden third world country. It is the achievement for which the history books will remember him!
Ideology This is a follow up to yesterday’s remarks about ‘common sense’—because the enemy of ‘common sense’ is ‘ideology.’ The Oxford Companion to Philosophy that I quoted yesterday has this to say about ‘ideology’—namely that it means ‘beliefs and values held by an individual or group for other than epistemic reasons.’ And that (perhaps unfamiliar) word ‘epistemic’ just means ‘knowledge.’ In other words, ‘ideology’ is not based on testable knowledge, it is just adopted in the absence of knowledge. In fact, people seem to hold to an ‘ideology’ out of interest, not evidence. Here’s the key: common sense means trying to conform thinking to reality (how things are); ‘ideology’ means trying make reality (how things are) conform to ideas. The Communist ideology employed by the old Soviet Empire was a massive failure—communist politics enslaved people and communist economics impoverished people: because it was an ‘ideology’ that was at odds with reality (with how things are). Today we see the ‘climate ideology’ based on just two propositions: (a) climate change will be catastrophic for the human race, and (b) climate change can be stopped by politicians. Both those propositions are highly dubious. But those who believe in that ideology try to make the world conform to it by spending massive amounts of money in pursuit of their (highly doubtful) dream. The Albanese government is based on a socialist ideology which sees government as responsible for every as aspect of human life—hence, the economy, the nation, and the lives of individuals should submit to bureaucratic control from Canberra. Absurdity on the same scale can be seen when you thoughtfully examine any ideology. That is why we put this simple ethical proposition: common sense good, ideology bad. Knowing that can save us from a world of confusion and nonsense. And if our politicians understood that, it would save us all from a world of pain.
Common sense Do you think common sense is in short supply these days? Does common sense look remarkably uncommon these days? There is an aggressive lobby that insists that males can become females. Common sense says that can’t happen. Governments claim they can exercise control over the global climate. Common sense says politicians can’t do that. You can see my concern (and perhaps even share it?) So, I have long been thinking about how best to define ‘common sense.’ Philosophers have thought (and argued!) about this for centuries. In The Oxford Companion to Philosophy there is an entry on ‘common sense’—written, as it happens, by an Australian, Tony Coady. In his essay he says: ‘It seems likely that common sense defies definition; certainly no one has succeeded in a satisfactory definition, and very few have tried.’ In the light of that, I shall be foolish enough to try to define ‘common sense.’ Here’s my attempt: ‘common sense is the human faculty that connects us (relates us) to reality.’ Our eyes are the faculty that connect us to vision (appearances); ears connect us to sound; skin connects us to touch; and our noses connect us to aromas. In just the same way, ‘common sense’ is a faculty that draws together all those five senses and makes them into one ‘common’ sense that relates us to reality. This is not a million miles away from Aristotle thought about ‘common sense’ all those years ago. And what is ‘reality’? Simply put, reality is ‘how things how.’ It is common sense that relates us to (connects us to) how things are. Which is why (for example) it is a violation of common sense to pretend that physically normal, healthy males can become females, or that politicians can control the global climate from Brazil to the South Pole. What do you think of my definition?
Satire The ABC screened a video clip made by one of the contestants in a reality show called ‘Race Around the World.’ This contestant submitted a video clip which proposed subjecting Gina Rinehart to a painful and humiliating death. It was a fantasy sketch in which a ‘Scottish forest warrior ninja’ did things to Gina Rineharr that are too disgusting for me to report here. It is surprising that the ABC agreed to screen it. Here’s their official defence: ‘The film was intended to be satirical in tone and considered to be editorially justifiable with the context of the program.’ So, it was ‘satire’ was it? And that makes fantasising about Gina Rinehart suffering a painful and humiliating death ‘justifiable’? So, let’s test this defence. What does the word ‘satire’ mean? The Cambridge English Dictionary says that ‘satire’ means: ‘criticizing people or ideas in a humorous way.’ And all the dictionaries agree on those two points: that satire is (a) humorous and (b) critical. The video shown by the ABC was neither. There was no criticism of Gina Rinehart, just the proposal that she be killed painfully, and there was no humour—not even the hint of a joke. The word ‘satire’ is recorded in English from 1509. It comes from a French source word, behind which is a bit of classical Latin. And from the beginning ‘satire’ was always meant to be those two things: critical and funny. The Longman Dictionary of Contemporary English speaks for all the major dictionaries when it says that ‘satire’ is ‘a way of criticizing something such as a group of people or a system, in which you deliberately make them seem funny so that people will see their faults.’ But in this video there was no criticism, no faults pointed out, and nothing funny. It was not ‘satire’. That means that the ABC getting down into the gutter to broadcast this video is without justification.
Watergate Talking about the moral degradation of our society, US Vice President J. D. Vance said, ‘Watergate today would just be a 12-hour news story.’ Sadly, I think his point would be lost on a generation who have never heard of ‘Watergate.’ So, even for those of us who remember, a quick refresher. The Watergate complex is a group of six buildings in Washington D.C. In 1972 the Watergate office building became the scene of (and the title of) the ‘Watergate Scandal.’ A group of burglars was (unofficially and off the books) employed the Committee to Re-Elect the President (yes, the initials did really make it CREEP!) On June 17, 1972, those operatives were caught burglarizing and planting listening devices in the Democratic National Committee headquarters in the Watergate building. The scandal built and built over months—and eventually engulfed President Richard Nixon (whose re-election they had been conniving at). He finally resigned in disgrace when it became apparent that he had (at the very least) been involved in attempts to cover up the scandal. One result was that the terminal ending of the word ‘Watergate’ was adopted as a way to label any scandal that broke out. This gave the newspapers such headline words as ‘Irangate’, ‘Dallasgate’, ‘Hollywoodgate’, ‘Koreagate’ and more. J. D. Vance’s point seems to be that the mainstream media is no longer interested in decency, dignity, morality, and civilisation. But, instead, mainstream media now judges everything based on which side of the political fence people are on. Those on the left will be defended (or their actions quietly hushed up) regardless of the ethical rules they break. But those on the right will be attacked viciously for exactly the same type of offences. If Vance is correct, then clearly the media moral compass is swinging wildly out of control—something we are reminded of by this old word ‘Watergate.’
Infidel The news report told us about an Australian ISIS bride who allegedly filmed herself showing her children videos and demanding they re-enact the ‘slaughter’ of an infidel. The report said her children were just toddlers at the time. All pretty horrible. But it started me thinking about this word ‘infidel.’ It has been part of the English language since about 1480, and comes (ultimately) from a Latin source word infidēlismeaning ‘unfaithful, treacherous, disloyal.’ In theory the word ‘infidel’ could be used in any religion to label unbelievers—those who do not share their faith. But in practice the only religion in the world to so use ‘infidel’ is Islam. The Arabic word used in the Koran for unbelievers is ‘kafir.’ This is used to label all those who say that Allah is not God and who do not accept the message of Mohamad as his prophet. A broad definition of kafir means that it includes all non-Muslims. The definition can have a significant impact on society because the Koran has a collection of verses with punishments against infidels. The Koran says that if people go on being ‘infidels’ then Muslims should ‘take them and kill them wherever ye find them, and choose no friend nor helper from among them’ (Koran 4:89). It also says, ‘slay the Pagans wherever ye find them, and seize them, beleaguer them, and lie in wait for them in every stratagem (of war); but if they repent, and establish regular prayers and practice regular charity, then open the way for them: for Allah is Oft-forgiving, Most Merciful’ (Koran 9:5). However, there are some Islamic websites that tell me that unbelievers are not to be considered as infidels: ‘We don’t regard non-Muslims as infidels, meaning that we don’t hate them, we don’t consider them criminals, and we certainly don’t regard them as enemies.’ So, clearly there is a range of opinions about us non-Muslims within Islam. Remember that, and don’t pre-judge any Muslim you meet!
Tall Poppy Writing in The Daily Telegraph James Morrow pointed out that the Albanese government suffers from ‘tall poppy syndrome’—dividing the world in ‘workers’ (good) and ‘investors’ (bad). The changes to negative gearing and capital gains tax seemed to be designed to hurt anyone who has worked hard all their lives in order to be able to invest a little to provide for the future. Morrow writes: ‘Albanese’s appeals to the worst elements of Australia’s old tall poppy sentiments fits squarely into this frame.’ This whole ‘tall poppy’ language is certainly ours—it is an Australian coinage. It first appeared in print in 1841 in a Victorian newspaper (the Portland Guardian published in the city of Portland on the far south-west coast of Victoria). I once had a talkback caller on my radio show claim that this expression is not Australian at all—it goes back to ancient Rome, he said. The truth is that the last king of Rome, Tarquinos Superbus, did have a policy of weakening a captured city by slaughtering its leading men. The journalist, or editor, who wrote the story in the Portland Guardian may well have known the story of Tarquinos and had this in the back of his mind when he wrote about how ‘tall poppies’ were treated. But the English compound noun ‘tall poppy’ is definitely an Australian coinage. The longer expression ‘tall poppy syndrome’ is much later, but it is also ours—coined in 1979 to mean disparaging and denigrating successful people. This had to be a much later coinage because ‘syndrome’ was not applied to a combination of opinions and behaviour until 1955. By the way, Tarquinos was the last king of Rome because his behaviour was so horrific it provoked the rebellion that created the Roman Republic.
Entitlement Are we living in the Age of Entitlement? Recently there was a news report about workers who claimed they were ‘entitled’ to work from home if they wished. At the Royal Commission into antisemitism one aggressive pro-Palestinian campaigner seemed to believe she was ‘entitled’ to call for harm to Jews. There are some members of the younger generation who seemed to have an ‘entitlement’ view of employment—they are ‘entitled’ not only to a job, but to the job they want (they should be supported by welfare until they find a job they like); and they are ‘entitled’ to rapid promotion (older generations should just get out their way). Perhaps it’s just my jaundiced eye, but we seem to be surrounded by an unhelpful culture of ‘entitlement.’ The word ‘entitlement’ came into the English language in 1782 (from a much older Anglo-Norman word). The Longman Dictionary of Contemporary English says ‘entitlement’ means the ‘right to have or do something.’ The Collins Dictionary uses almost identical words, while the Cambridge English Dictionary says almost the same thing. There is universal agreement about this—a sense of ‘entitlement’ means the assumption that you have ‘rights.’ I blame the ‘Universal Declaration of Human Rights.’ This is a noble and well-intentioned document published by the United Nations in 1948. But it failed to include any accompanying ‘Universal Declaration of Human Responsibilities.’ The result is generations who have separated ‘rights’ from ‘responsibilities.’ The further result is a lack of any sense of having duties or obligations to anyone else. As far as the ‘Entitled Generation’ is concerned, the world is all about them and their rights—and they have no obligations towards anyone else or to society in general. Hence, the age we live—the Age of Entitlement.
Labor I was reading a newspaper story about how companies are going bankrupt at the rate of 30 a day since Albanese’s Labor Party won power in 2022. But it was the headline above the story that caught my eye: ‘Risky Business Under Labor’—and I wondered (not for the first time) why the ALP had adopted the American spelling of ‘labor’ (instead of the standard English spelling of ‘labour’). According to the internet there was originally no standardised spelling of the party's name, with both spellings in common use. Ross McMullin (who wrote an official history of the ALP) has tried to track down the answer. He says the title page of the proceedings of the Federal Conference of the ALP used the spelling ‘Labor’ in 1902, ‘Labour’ in 1905 and 1908, and then ‘Labor’ from 1912 onwards. So it began with a bit of to-ing and fro-ing. But why did they do it? One theory is that it was an attempt at ‘modernising.’ In other words, this was an attempt to portray the ALP as being forward looking rather than backward looking. And the spelling of ‘labor’ adopted by Noah Webster in the great American dictionary bearing his name was thought of as being ‘forward looking.’ Another suggestion is that it had nothing to do with ‘modernising’ but with the influence of King O’Malley. He was (probably) born in 1858 in Valley Falls, Kansas. As an American citizen, rather than a British subject, O’Malley would have been ineligible to stand for election to the Australian Federal Parliament. Which is probably why O’Malley always claimed to have been born in Quebec, Canada, and was thus a British subject. He served as a Labor member of parliament from 1901 to 1917—and he may have been a loud voice in favour of the American spelling of ‘labor.’ Was it O’Malley” Or just a ‘modernising’ push? It seems no one knows for sure!
Cloth covered In this modern age dominated by the ubiquitous paperback book we vary rarely encounter books published with hard covers of cloth-covered boards. They do still exist. I am currently reading Origins of the Specious: Myths and Misconceptions of the English Language by Patricia T. O’Connor. Underneath its attractive, wrap-around paper dust jacket is found cloth-covered board covers. But it is a rarity—since most books only ever appear in cheaper paperbacks. But, as a word-wizard I am delighted to report that I now know the proper name for that cloth binding that is used for hard back books. It is called ‘Winterbottom Book Cloth.’ It had never occurred to me that a special sort of cloth was required for book binding, but this, it turns out, is the case. And the cloth used was invented in 1853 by a cotton merchant in Manchester named Archibald Winterbottom. His book cloth was made out of stiffly starched cotton—and the whole point at the time was that binding books with cloth covered boards was miles cheaper than the leather or vellum hardcovers that had been used up to that point. Such books were unaffordable, except by the very rich. These new cloth bound books were affordable, and very soon popular authors such as Charles Dickens, William Thackeray and Wilkie Collins had become best-selling authors in the new cloth bound books. As for Archibald Winterbottom, he first worked for someone else’s cotton firm, and then in 1874 bought his own mill in Salford, and became the largest producer of book cloth in the world—which I now know is properly called ‘Winterbottom Book Cloth.’ He also introduced the gold-stamping and (sometimes) elaborate designs for cloth covers that became characteristics of the Victorian book trade (and can still be found as handsome volumes through second hand booksellers). Winterbottom Book Cloth continued to dominate the book publishing industry until the middle of the 20thcentury—when the cheaper paperbacks started to take over. In the meantime, the Winterbottom family had become multimillionaires. So, if you ever find one of those handsome old books, as you lovingly finger it you can mutter to yourself ‘Winterbottom Book Cloth’ because you now know the correct name.
Durry There has been much in the news lately about the illicit tobacco trade. Successive governments have increased the tax on tobacco products to such a level that organised crime has taken over and is now smuggling in cheap cigarettes and tobacco. The illicit trade is now bigger than the legal trade. But putting aside the government incompetence over this, reporting on it has used an old an interesting word: ‘durry’ (sometimes spelled ‘durrie’). Writing in The Daily Telegraph David Elliot says that he has always been ambivalent about the tobacco trade, and then adds: ‘Of course I used to have the odd durry in the army. We call did.’ According to The Australian National Dictionary the word ‘durry’ first appeared in print in 1941, in Sid Baker’s Popular Dictionary of Australian Slang. And if Sid was reporting it in 1941, it must have been part of the spoken language for some time. There are two theories about where this might have come from. One is that it is First World War diggers slang, from when the Anzacs were posted to Cairo in the Middle East conflict. Supposedly ‘durry’ was the name of a local rug or carpet, and the joke was that roll your own ciggies tasted as bad is if you were smoking a bit of rolled up Egyptian rug. And it is true that ‘dhurrie’ was the name of a heavy-duty cotton rug (originally an Indian name). But the Australian National Dictionary says this is unlikely to be the source. (It is not in W. H. Downing’s Digger Dialects). They prefer the alternative theory that it comes from the American tobacco sold under the proprietary name of ‘Bull Durham.’ This came as packets of loose-leaf tobacco from W. T. Blackwell and Company in Durham, North Carolina. This stuff was sold from 1850 until 1988. We are more likely to think of ‘Bull Durham’ as referring to the 1988 Kevin Costner baseball movie—but the movie took its name from the tobacco, and so did our slang term ‘durry.’
Otrovert We have all heard the expressions ‘introvert’ (the quiet, shy type) and ‘extrovert’ (the ones that won’t shut up!). We have known them for years, and we know people who fit those patterns! But now there is this new label of ‘otrovert.’ The word seems to have been coined by American psychiatrist Rami Kaminski. This arose out of a longstanding debate in psychology: whether two personality poles are enough to capture the richness and complexity of the human temperament. Surely we can’t all be stuck into just these two pigeon-holes of introvert or extrovert? The introvert–extrovert model, rooted in Jung’s early theories, has shaped everything from pop psychology to corporate training. Neat theories should always be suspect (however attractive they are). Hence the need for this new category of ‘otrovert’—meaning someone who is sometimes introverted in their behaviour and sometimes extroverted, depending on the group and the situation they are in. ‘Otroverts’ just don’t belong in a pigeon-hole (because they’re not pigeons!). They are just them. They are individuals with their own behaviour patterns and their own coping strategies. Hey! The more I read about ‘otroverts’ the more I like them. Kaminski says, ‘They can be warm, socially skilled, and deeply connected to individuals, yet collective identity never feels intuitive.’ I’m starting think that we wordies might all be ‘otroverts’? So far the word has not appeared in any major dictionary, but it is included by the Collins Dictionary in its list of ‘new word suggestions’ and it will get into the big book if it is used enough. Of course, the hip online Urban Dictionary has ‘otrovert’ (they who jump on every passing band-wagon) and they offer the definition: ‘A person who isn’t introverted or extroverted. They switch depending on people and energy. They recharge alone, socialize selectively, and adapt their vibe to the environment naturally.’ Which is very hip. But it does sound like a lot of wordies I know!
Foreign tongues Have you ever tried to learn a foreign language? I remember struggling to learn French in high school, but when we travelled to France I was surprised at how many little bits had stuck (I found there were signs I could read, but I couldn’t talk to anyone!) A recent study by the website Virtual Capitalist has listed foreign languages in order of how difficult they are to learn. They divided them into categories. Category I includes those languages that are closest to English. I have often made the point that English is a blend of Germanic and Latin source words. So, the most similar languages are those that are called the ‘Romance’ languages—these are the languages that are directedly descended from Latin: Spanish, Italian and French. There are enough recognisable words, and sufficient similarities of sentence structure, to make these less hard. (You notice how I put that— ‘less hard.’ Still hard, but a bit less hard.) They say that Category I languages will take 24 to 30 weeks (of solid study and practice) to learn. This will amount to (they suggest) at least 23 classroom hours and 17 personal study hours. And these, remember, are the ‘less hard’ languages. It just gets worse folks! In Category II are German, Indonesian and Swahili. But why German? Isn’t that where many of our words come from? Ah, but English stopped being an inflected language back in the days of Old English and modern German is still a heavily inflected language. So very different. 36 solid weeks here to learn the language. Then Category III includes languages that have a totally different writing system to English: Greek, Russian, Arabic, Korean, Japanese and the two Chinese languages Mandarin and Cantonese (which are written the same but pronounced differently). These Asian languages are killers to learn since you have master tones and inflections to be able to speak them. For Category III they suggest 44 gruelling weeks will be needed to get anywhere near understanding the language. So, how about it? Feel inspired to learn a foreign tongue? Or more convinced than ever to stick to good old English?
Bias The Chairman of the ABC Kim Williams agreed to appear on The Chris Kenny Show on Sky News to face a grilling by Chris. In the end he just stone-walled and denied everything we can see and hear on ABC radio and television, insisting there is no ‘bias’ at the ABC. At one point he made the pusillanimous statement that he didn’t know how any of the ABC staff voted. This a weasel word way of dodging the issue. It’s not how they vote that matters, it how they broadcast—and we taxpayers are giving them a billion dollars a year to broadcast in a ‘biased’ way. The word ‘bias’ is recorded in English from around 1530. It came into English via French (ultimately) from a Latin word. The earliest meaning of ‘bias’ was ‘a slanting or sloping line, a diagonal.’ In other words, instead of being a straight up-and-down line on one axis, it is on two axis—both vertical and horizontal—meaning is slopes in one direction. The Latin word said exactly this: biaxius is the word ‘axis’ with the prefix ‘bi-’ meaning two. And that’s whole point of the ABC—they appear to be incapable of being straight up-and-down with us. They take our tax money and use it to promote a view of the world that leans to one side. Kim Williams is a halfwit if he thinks there is not clearly a commitment at the ABC to the climate ideology. There is also a commitment to a pro-Islamic anti-Jewish view of the Middle East. And when Anthony Albanese turned sleazy misogynist saying the wanted to ‘shag’ Kylie Minogue where were the feminist voices at the ABC? Strangely silent! They couldn’t criticise their socialist prime minister. This perceived ‘bias’—this constantly leaning away from a straight line—means there is no justification for the ABC to receive a single dollar of taxpayer money
Vice-chancellor Recently the vice-chancellors of some of Australia’s oldest and most distinguished universities have appeared before the Royal Commission into antisemitism. By and large they tended to cut rather sad and pathetic figures. They looked like weak, feeble and ineffectual people. They admitted that Jewish students and staff at their universities had been monstered by the vicious and aggressive Jew-hating pro-Palestinians. But all they offered were weasel words— ‘unacceptable’ being the most common. But actually, taking any action against such behaviour they would never have the nerve to tackle. All this embarrassment made me think about this odd title of ‘vice-chancellor.’ The root word ‘chancellor’ came into English from Norman French sometime after 1066. Behind it is a post classical Latin word cancellarius which was the tile given to the Chancellor of William the Conqueror. (So they used the Latin form, not the Old French form of the word.) It basically meant someone whose role it was to conduct business on behalf of another. Then it was broadened to refer to any high ranking official. In universities it came to be applied to head of a university—most often a purely symbolic role, rather than one exercising real power. That power was exercised (supposed on behalf of the chancellor) by the ‘vice-chancellor’. The Oxford helpfully explains: ‘In the universities of Oxford and Cambridge the role of Vice-Chancellor was formerly one to which the head of a college was appointed for a limited time, but is now a separate executive post. In other universities it is typically carried out by the executive head of the university.’ And since Australian universities have now switched from being institutions of learning and civilisation to being mere businesses, the role of the ‘vice-chancellor’ has become one of maximising profits!
Grammarphobia Today I am writing to recommend someone else’s website (something I don’t do often!) The website in question is called ‘Grammarphobia’ and is run by the husband-and-wife team of Patricia T. O’Connor and Stewart Kellerman. I am currently reading one of their books: Origins of the Specious (look again carefully—it’s ‘specious’ not ‘species’!). The book is about the myths and misconceptions of the English language. I am using it as my current ‘train book.’ I travel to and from Sky News by the Metro, and while everyone else in the carriage is glued to the screens on their little smart phones, I am reading a book. Of course. What else would you expect? Much of what they write about I agree with totally (can you split the infinitive? Yes, you can!). But not everything. For instance, take the word ‘niche’ (which means a small recess, or an appropriate place or position). They write: ‘Traditionally the word “niche’ has been pronounced NITCH.’ Oh, no it hasn’t. The real authority on pronunciation is not some American supermarket—it’s the Oxford English Dictionary which says we pronounce the word as NEESH. But this is only a minor blemish. Patricia and Stewart are [a] right about almost everything (or everything except ‘niche’), and [b] are always interesting to read. Hence, I am recommending their website ‘Grammarphobia.’ There you’ll find their latest language blog, and an archive full of previous language blogs, a ‘Q and A’ page filled with the most common questions about language. (In that it differs from my own ‘Q and A’ page which I am regularly updating with the latest questions I have been asked.) On ‘Grammarphobia’ there is also a page of common language myths, a list of their books, and a bit about the authors. You can even subscribe to their newsletter (which only comes out occasionally—not every day, as mine does). For us wordies it is fun site, and I recommend it. You can find it at grammarphobia.com.