Kel's previous Ozwords of the day...

---

Stymie Will Hamas try to ‘stymie’ President Donald Trump’s 20-point plan for peace in the Middle East? It’s not really a question, is it? Because the obvious answer must be—yes, of course they will. We can only hope that they don’t succeed. But what about this word ’stymie’—where does it come from? And what, exactly, does it mean? A friend who raised the issue of ‘stymie’ with me said he thought it might come from Yiddish. And I can see why he might think that. But it doesn’t. Instead, it speaks with a Scottish accent! Sometimes, I make discoveries about words that really delight me—and this is one of them. Although the giant brains at the Oxford English Dictionary tell us ‘stymie’ is of ‘obscure origin’ they do say that it began in the game of golf—probably around the year 1834. It described a situation where a player’s ball obstructed another’s path to the hole, making the next shot difficult or impossible. The word likely comes from Scots dialect, where ‘stymie’ referred to an obstacle or difficulty. Imagine you’re putting on the green and between where your ball lies, and the hole is your competitor’s ball. That is a ‘stymie.’ On a billiard table you would have said you were snookered. In fact, it appears that this might have been a tactic of golf at the time—known as the intention to ‘lay a stymie.’ Originally, ‘stymie’ was a noun, and named the blocking ball. Over time it became a verb, so now we can talk about how Hamas might ‘stymie’ Trump’s plans. I don’t know the laws of the modern game of golf (and John Stanley is not here to ask) but I have a sneaking feeling that these days your opponent would mark the position of his ball in some way (by dropping a coin or whatever) then lift his ball off the green so that you would have a clear shot to the tee—the ‘stymie’ having been removed. But clearly this must not have been the case in the 1830s. Over time, this golfing term entered general usage, evolving to describe any situation where progress is blocked. The shift in meaning showcases how specialized terms can transcend their original context to enrich everyday language.

Parliament With our federal parliament back in session it occurred to me that I had never talked about this word ‘parliament’—and it’s a more interesting word than you might think. The word ‘parliament’ has been part of the English language since about the years 1300—and seems to have come from an Anglo-Norman (or Old French) source word. So this is another word we can blame on William the Conqueror and his Norman lords and all the things they inflicted on the English language after 1066. It started, as you might expect, not with our democratically elected representatives who form a government and a ‘loyal opposition’—but well before democracy ‘parliament’ just meant any formal council summoned to discuss important matters. The ‘parliament’ was one of the Great Councils of the Plantagenet Kings. Historically it was a body summoned by the king, and given the task of advising the king. At first it was just a council of the High Lords of the land, but over time bits of democracy slowly crept in—so the ‘parliament’ became more a council of representatives chosen by the landowners of a particular borough. Until in our day it consists of the representatives chosen by all the citizens of a district or ‘seat.’ And what does a ‘parliament’ actually do when it sits? It talks! And talks, and talks, and talks. Which is exactly what the word means. The Old French (or Anglo Norman) source word conveyed then notion of discussion, or conversation. That’s because behind ‘parliament’ was the even old word ‘parley’ meaning: ‘speech, words, conversation, discussion, faculty of speech, language, action of speaking’ (Oxford English Dictionary). In fact, when enemies, or opponents, meet to try to work out a solution to their differences we can still call what they do a ‘parley’ to this day. So our ‘parliament’ is meant to be exactly want it is—a ‘talk fest.’ (By the way, ‘talk fest; is an American coinage from around 1896). So when you listen to the ‘parliamentary theatre’ of question time you are hearing exactly what parliament exists to do! 

Acetaminophen What a weird looking word! Did you pick this up when Donald Trump announced that pregnant women should not take a common pain/fever tablet during pregnancy? The brand that is best known in America is Tylenol—which (to the best of my knowledge) is unknown in Australia. As far as I can work this out, Tylenol is the equivalent of the popular over-the-counter drug we know here as Panadol. That’s the most common brand name, but the name of the drug (as least here is in Australia) is paracetamol. 

Now, here’s where it gets complicated—from the way newspapers have been reporting this whole story ‘acetaminophen’ is just another name for ‘paracetamol.’ Now I’m sure I’m about to get a flood of emails from chemists telling me that I’ve misunderstood—and please do so, alleviate my confusion. But until those emails start come, I will tell you that ‘paracetamol’ and ‘acetaminophen’ are the same thing. The pronunciation (which I’m sure you want to know) for ‘acetaminophen’ is ‘ah-seet-ah-MIN-ah-fen.’ (Does that help? Sorry, that’s the best I can do.) The Oxford English Dictionary defines ‘acetaminophen’ as ‘The analgesic and antipyretic drug paracetamol’ (so I have the authority of the Oxford to say those two drugs are the same thing.) The Oxford adds that the word ‘acetaminophen’ is chiefly used in North American pharmacology. But that’s weird. I though the names of drugs were standard among chemists around the world. How can a chemical substance have one name in America and another name in the rest of the world. By the way, when the Oxford says that this drug is an ‘antipyretic-analgesic’ drug, the ‘antipyretic’ part means ‘tending to prevent or allay fever’ (which we know paracetamol does, and the ‘analgesic’ part means ‘relieves or reduces fever’). By the way, the popular radio chemist John Bell once told me on my radio show that paracetamol and ibuprofen (that’s Nurofen for you non-chemists) work differently, and so they work better when taken together. So next time you get a headache, instead of choosing between Panadol and Nurofen take one of each. But I am not a doctor, and this is not medical advice! And I am still baffled as to why the Americans can’t just call ‘paracetamol’ what it is, (paracetamol), and why they need to invent this more complex and ridiculous name for it—acetaminophen. 

Perpetrate / Perpetuate One of our readers, Eleanor, recently wrote to me to pass on a valuable observation: ‘On TV last night a government spokes(wo)man said that Optus had “perpetuated an enormous failure on the Australian people”. I guess she really meant to say ‘perpetrated’, not perpetuated. Perhaps you could explain the meanings of these two words in your column. If not those words, then perhaps the word ‘malapropism’ with the two words as an example. Maybe you’ll be kind and spare the government lady? But if you do there will be a few more people who don’t know the difference, and one day it will end up like ‘alternate’ and ‘alternative’ which are now used interchangeably. Sad.’ I agree with Eleanor that it’s sad when our wonderful language is muddled in this way—especially by a parliamentarian who should know better. So, there are three words to look at here. The first ‘perpetuated’—the muddle word that fails to actually name what Optus did with its lethal outage of tipple-0 calls. ‘Perpetuate’ means ‘to continue’ or ‘to keep going indefinitely.’ Well, that’s not what Optus did, is it? It took them too long to act and too long to fix it, but it was not shut down indefinitely, was it? (‘Perpetuate’ came into English from Latin via French around 1530. We get the more familiar word ‘perpetual’ from the same source.) The correct word would have been ‘perpetrate.’ In a neutral sense this can just mean to carry out an action, but it is more commonly used to refer to criminal activities in which case it means ‘to commit a crime.’ That’s why cops on TV refer to an offender as a ‘perp’—meaning a perpetrator of a crime. As for Eleanor’s third word— ‘malapropism’—that means the incorrect use of a word in place of a word with a similar sound, which is exactly what happened in this case. This label comes from Mrs Malaprop, a character in Richard Brinsley Sheridan’s 1775 play ‘The Rivals’ who constantly did this in her dialogue. She says such things as: ‘if I reprehend anything in this world it is the use of my oraculartongue, and a nice derangement of epitaphs!’ What she meant, of course, was: ‘if I apprehendanything in this world it is the use of my vernacular tongue, and a nice arrangement of epithets!’ But that’s what Malapropism is. And that’s how our government representatives (at least sometimes) speak!

Anomia Recently The Australian newspaper ran a series of reports on dementia. In that context I came across this word ‘anomia’—which means ‘difficulty in naming objects or persons’ (Oxford English Dictionary) or ‘a loss of the ability to readily access words’ (Merriam-Webster Dictionary)—and all the other big dictionaries have similar definitions. The question that interests me is this: is ‘anomia’ a symptom of the onset of dementia? Or is it just a normal part of getting a bit older? The answer (confusingly) is—it can be either. For a start ‘anomia’ is fairly normal as we age. You know what it’s like: you suddenly can’t remember the name of the author you used to read ten years ago (and who you want to recommend to your friend at the moment). You say, ‘Ah, yes, there’s a really good author who writes exactly the kind of thing you like. His name is… hang on… it’ll come back to me in a moment…’ That happens, doesn’t it? And it’s normal. This is so common the French have an expression for it: ‘l’esprit d’escalier’—literally ‘the spirit of the stairs’ meaning you finally remember the word or name you want only when you’re leaving and walking down the stairs. One expert on aging once told me on my radio show that this happens because the human brain is like the ‘black box’ memory in a computer—it is of a limited size (big, but still limited). And as we acquire more and more knowledge over the years inevitably some new bit comes in and pushes another older bit back into a dark corner. I remember explaining this to Bob Rogers once. I said, ‘Bob the reason you forger things is because you know so much!’ He was quite pleased by that. However (the other side of the picture), if this goes on and gets steadily worse it can become a symptom of something called ‘anomic aphasia’—meaning the loss of the naming power of speech. But let’s not dwell on that, shall we? The word ‘anomia’ comes from the Latin word for ‘name’ (nomen) with the negative prefix of ‘a’. As long we finally (two and half hours later!) do remember the name that had escaped us earlier, then we are clearly still in the business of the black box being full (and, hence, difficult to search through). And younger readers need not chuckle—this comes to everyone in time!

Love languages Yesterday I reported that the compound noun ‘love languages’ has now been added to the Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary. And as this is now part of the English language, I thought it might be worthwhile taking a closer look at this expression. The term ‘love language’ comes from the title of the book The Five Languages of Love (1992) written by Baptist pastor Garry Chapman. The book went on to become a best seller—by 2017 it had spent 297 weeks on the New York Times best-seller list. Chapman recognises how limited the English word ‘love’ is. In fact, the Greeks had four words for ‘love’: (1) eros—romantic love; (2) philos—the love of friendship; (3) storge—the love between family members; and (4) agape—loving the unlovely, the love of compassion and mercy. Given that richness in the wider concept of love, Gary Chapman proposed that love is expressed in these five different languages:

1. ‘Words of affirmation’—Showing love through verbal appreciation, compliments and encouragement. 

2. 'Quality time' —Showing love by giving undivided attention, engaging in meaningful conversations, and participating in various activities together.

3. 'Gifts'—Showing love through thoughtful and meaningful gifts that symbolize appreciation and affection.

4. ‘Acts of service’—Showing love by performing various tasks that are helpful and ease the partner’s burdens.

5. 'Physical touch' —Showing love through physical gestures such as hugging, kissing, and holding hands among others.

In the book Gary Chapman provides various examples from his counselling sessions and includes questions to help readers identify both their own and their partner’s primary and secondary love languages. According to his theory, each person has one primary and one secondary love language. The professional psychologists have tended to be sceptical about his theory. A 2024 study led by Emily Impett and published in Current Directions in Psychological Science, rejects Chapman's claims by arguing that there are more than five ways to express love, people do not have a ‘primary’ love language, and relationships do not suffer when partners have different love languages. My reaction to that is two-fold: (a) psychology is not a science! And (b) Gary Chapman’s ideas are still interesting and thought provoking.

Newly added The big American dictionary company Merriam-Webster has announced a major overhaul of its popular “Collegiate” dictionary. The company has added more than 5,000 terms. This is the first hard-copy revision in more than twenty years. This is the 12th edition of the popular Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary (the last revision—the 11th—was the one that introduced Americans to the Aussie word ‘bludging.’ Is there anything as interesting in this new 12th edition? Let’s have a look. Here’s a small sample of the newly added words with the dictionary’s own definitions: 

Dad bod— A physique regarded as typical of an average father, especially one that is slightly overweight and not extremely muscular.

Dumb phone— A mobile phone that does not include advanced software features, such as email or an internet browser typically found on smartphones.

Farm-to-table— Involving or advocating the direct sale and distribution of food from its point of origin to customers. (What a wordy definition! I think they just mean the sort of famers’ markets we’re familiar with.)

Petrichor— A distinctive, earthy, usually pleasant odour that is associated with rainfall, especially when following a warm, dry period. (One of my favourite words—the smell of rain. But it’s not new! In fact, it’s first recorded around 1964, so I’m surprised the Webster’s Collegiate is only now catching up with it.)

Rizz—Romantic appeal or charm. (This one is corruption of ‘charisma’—and is the sort of slang college students would like.)

Side-eye— A sidelong glance or gaze, especially when expressing scorn, suspicion, disapproval or veiled curiosity.

Teraflop— A unit of measure for the calculating speed of a computer equal to one trillion floating-point operations per second. 

Love language— A person’s characteristic means of showing love or care for another. (This based on the 1992 The Five Languages of Love by American Baptist pastor Garry Chaplman—and since this is now part of the language I’ll have more on this tomorrow.)

Well, there’s a small handful of the new entries in the 12 edition of Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary. Are you impressed by the words American college students need to know? 

Wog A reader asks about the word ‘wog’. Well, to quote the Oxford English Dictionary ‘wog’ is “a vulgarly offensive name for a foreigner” and is recorded as such from 1929. There are various myths concerning its origin—for example that it originally was an acronym for “Wily Oriental Gentleman” or “Worthy Oriental Gentleman” or some variation of that. Completely untrue. Another myth is that when Egypt was under British rule—1888 to 1956—non-Anglos who worked for the Egyptian government were issued with uniforms with the letters WOG printed on the back. These letters (supposedly) stood for ‘working on government’ (business). Never happened. Again totally untrue. In fact, most people will tell that the experts have no clear or certain idea of where it came from. And a lot of the linguistic experts will say the same themselves. But I think we can do better than that. By far the most likely source of ‘wog’ is as an abbreviation of the name of the child’s toy ‘golliwog.’ You remember that don’t you? —a blackfaced, fuzzy haired soft, cuddly toy. It was created by cartoonist and author Florence Kate Upton in 1895. It remained popular until the 1970s when it went out of fashion (frowned upon as possibly racist). Upton coined the word ‘golliwog’ as a play on the old children’s name for a tadpole: ‘polliwog.’ And once you abbreviate this you get the one-syllable sneer: ‘wog’. As for its status—well, it is still definitely offensive. In fact, the only people who can use the word ‘wog’ without given offence are those of “Middle Eastern appearance” (to use the expression employed by police) as in the show “Wogs out of Work.” But persons of other ethnic origins would give offence if they called someone a ‘wog’. However, some time ago the West Australian government decreed that the word ‘wog’ was not to be regarded as an offensive term under that state’s racial vilification rules. 

More words about words Today we continue our list (from Dictionary.com) of words that explain the use of words. We ran half the list yesterday, here’s the rest:

Sniglet—is a word that has been invented to name something for which we don’t have a word. The word ‘sniglet’ was coined by comedian Rich Hall. For instance, you’ll remember that time when you dunked a biscuit in your tea or coffee and the end of the biscuit dropped off and fell into the drink. My daughter coined the word ‘soggit’ to name the soggy bit of abbreviatbiscuit in the bottom of the cup.

Neologism—is a newly coined word. The word ‘cryptocurrency’ was coined in 1975, so in 1975 ‘cryptocurrency’ was a ‘neologism’ (50 years later, of course, it is established and no longer ‘new’.)

Contranym—is a word that seems to have two contrary means. For instance, the word ‘cleave’ can be used to say, ‘cleave together’ (stick together) or ‘cleave apart’ (separate); ‘draft’ can mean ‘draw up’ or ‘a current of air.’

Oxymoron—is a figure of speech in which the adjective seems to contradict the noun it qualifies, e.g. ‘hasten slowly.’ (The more cynical might say that ‘Army intelligence’ and ‘Government action’ are oxymorons!)

Malapropism—the ludicrous misuse of words, from the name of a character (Mrs Malaprop) in Sheriden’s play The Rivals e.g. Mrs Malaprop talks about someone being ‘the very pineapple of politeness.’

Homophone—two different words that have the same sound, e.g. ‘eight’ and ‘ate.’

Homonym—different words that not only sound the name but are also spelled the same, e.g. ‘pen’ (writing implement) and ‘pen’ (holding stall for animals).

Euphemism—in which a softer word is substituted for what might be seen as a harsher word. The most common example is ‘passed away’ instead of ‘died.’

Dysphemism—is the opposite: substituting a harsher word for a better one, e.g. calling a doctor a ‘quack’ or a journalist a ‘hack.’

Synecdoche—in which the name of a part is used to refer to the whole. So, ‘nice set of wheels’ means ‘nice car’; or ‘the White House says…’ means ‘the American government says…’ (And if you haven't come across this one before, it's pronounced suh-NECK-duh-kee.) 

There you are. Put yesterday and today together and you have a list of 20 words about words. All of them are language tools to help you think, and talk, about language. Have fun with them!

Words about words There are words in our language that are devoted to how the words in our language work. Recently Dictionary.com compiled a list of some 20 or so such words, and I thought you might find it fun to run through the list, and see which ‘words about words’ are already familiar to you, and how many are new. So, let’s get going:

Portmanteau—a ‘portmanteau’ word packs two words into one new word, just like packing things into a suitcase (‘portmanteau’ is French for suitcase). If you pack ‘smoke’ and ‘fog’ into one verbal package you get ‘smog’—a portmanteau word.

Onomatopoeia—names a word which is echoic. That is, it imitates the sound of what it names. ‘Splash’ is that kind of word.

Loanword—a ‘loanword’ is (as the name implies) a word from a foreign language that English has borrowed. (Although whether the source language ‘loaned’ it to us, or we just nicked it is another question.) When we call a giant wave a ‘tsunami’ we are using a Japanese ‘loanword.’

Tmesis—means inserting another word into the middle of a compound noun. A good example is John O’Grady’s famous poem about being ‘Down at Tumba-bloody-rumba shootin’ kanga-bloody-roos.’

Nonce word—is a word that was invented for a single, specific occasion. Think of it as a ‘once word.’ The word ‘cromulent’ invented by the writers of The Simpsons is a good example.

Mondegreen—means mistaking the words of a song lyric. It comes from the mis-hearing of an English folk song’— ‘...they laid him on the green’ was mis-heard as ‘Lady Mondegreen.’

Eggcorn—is a new word or phrase that emerges from mistakenly hearing or interpreting another. For instance, ‘for all intents and purposes’ is mis-heard s ‘for all intensive purposes.’

Crash blossom—this is one I had not come across before. I have known for a long time about badly written (ambiguous) headlines, but I didn’t know they were called a ‘crash blossom.’ For instance: ‘Doctors Help Bee Sting Patients’ (did the doctors help the bee or the patients?)

Ghost word—is a word that is mistakenly recorded in a dictionary. Because new dictionaries often borrow entries from old dictionaries, one dictionary writer saw the heading ‘D or d’ at the head of the fourth letter in the alphabet, and transcribed it as non-existent word ‘Dord.’

Mountweazel—this is another new one on me. To stop the sort of borrowing (or stealing) I just referred to, some reference books stick in some nonsense words that can reveal if their words are being stolen. The word ‘mountweazel’ is a reference to “Lillian Virginia Mountweazel,” a fake name used in the 1975 New Columbia Encyclopedia to detect copyright thefts from the encyclopedia.

More words about words tomorrow.

Pidgin A reader of this column recently offered to give an old dictionary of pidgin English that she had. Janet has very kindly now sent this to me, and it is (to a wordie such as me) a delightful and fascinating little book. It’s called The Book of Pidgin English by John J Murphy. It was first published in 1943, and the one I have is a later edition from 1959. The book deals with the form of pidgin English spoken in Papua New Guinea. I need to explain that there are different types of pidgin English spoken in different places. The word itself ‘pidgin’ is a corruption of our word ‘business’—so all these different ‘pidgins’ started life as forms of ‘business English.’ In other words, traders encountered local people they wanted to trade with and a special kind of “in between” language was invented (or slowly grew) to enable them to do so. The earliest recorded form of ‘pidgin English’ was one that was cooked up between English traders and Chinese people. This is recorded from 1807—and ‘pidgin’ is probably a Chinese corruption of ‘business.’ While this little book on the desk beside me is from PNG there is a different form of pidgin used by Aboriginal people across much of northern Australia. This plays a useful role because each tribal grouping has a different language—and pidgin is for them a common tongue that links them. So, what about PNG pidgin? To give you the flavour of the language here’s the first verse of ‘God Save the King’ in pidgin: “Deo sambai long King, / Sambai long King bolong mi / Sambai long King.’ The word ‘sambai’ means ‘watch over, protect, or guard.’ This language (and this little book) mattered because before PNG became an independent nation (50 years ago) it was an Australian protectorate. Those years (between WWII and Independence) when PNG was Australia’s responsibility are called (in pidgin) ‘taim bolong masta’ (pronounced as ‘time belong master’). The author, John Murphy, calls this language ‘Melanesian Pidgin-English.’ ‘Melanesia’ literally means ‘black islands’ and includes New Guinea, the Solomon Islands, Vanuatu, New Caledonia, Fiji, and many smaller islands. When you look at his pidgin you can see the English words that have been borrowed and adapted to suit local dialects. For instance, ‘kilim’ frequently means ‘kill’ and ‘shove’ or ‘push’ becomes ‘pusim.’ And ‘Putim waswas bolong mi’ translates as ‘Prepare my bath.’ I think it’s a fun language and I will enjoy reading the whole of this little book. So, Janet, once again, many thanks.

Conservative The political label ‘conservative’ goes back to 1831, but its source word is much older. The verb ‘to conserve’ goes back to the 1300s with the obvious meaning of preserving something. Politically that usually means ‘preservation of traditional values, ideas, and institutions’ (Oxford English Dictionary). Whether you’d label yourself this way or not, it is clearly an important form of political thinking that should be part of the mix in a healthy democracy. But conservative politics in Australia looks to be in the worst shape it has ever been in—with the federal Liberal Party drifting towards a feeble version of Labor Party policies (and thus ceasing to be an ‘Opposition’ in any meaningful sense of the word). So what do conservatives do in Australia? Wait patiently until failure drives the Liberals back to the Menzies/Howard/Abbott tradition? Rant and rave ineffectually from the sidelines? Here’s one way to preserve the real meaning of the word ‘conservative’ in Australian politics. My humble suggestion has four steps. Step (1) Every conservative member of the federal Liberal Party resigns from the party and joins the National Party. Every right-of-centre Liberal Party member should (ideally) jump ship at once. This would make the Nationals the largest party in opposition, and David Littleproud would become Opposition Leader. He comes across as a trustworthy ‘safe pair of hands.’ Leadership would switch immediately from Sussan Ley to the likable, relatable, normal bloke. Step (2) start selecting a National Party candidate for every single seat in the federal parliament for the next election. This would be a signal of the new, larger National Party’s true national intentions. The result would be a major party front and centre that speaks in a normal Aussie voice about normal Aussie values Step (3) Dissolve the formal coalition with the Liberal Party rump, ending indecisive ‘joint party room meetings.’ Step (4) start moving in the federal parliament to promote issues that would nail their ‘colours to the mast.’ For instance, a private member’s bill to repeal Australia’s shameful ban on nuclear science; or to make burning the Australian flag a criminal offence; or to pay childcare allowances directly to parents instead of commercial childcare centres. And there must be other ‘colour nailing’ moves that could be made (e.g. Halving the level of mass migration? Putting cheap electricity as the main goal of power policy?) The current Liberal Pary has only existed since 1945. Before that conservatism was represented by the United Australia Party, and before that by the Nationalist Party of Australia. So there is a precedent. Perhaps my idea is not so eccentric after all? What do you think of my four steps?

Off by heart Do you know Banjo Paterson’s ‘Clancy of the Overflow’ I asked? Yes, was the answer, I have it off by heart. Why is rote learning called ‘learning it off by heart’? Why not ‘…by mind’? Or ‘’’…by brain’? We know it’s not your heart that does the learning, since your heart is ‘a hollow muscular organ of vertebrate animals that by its rhythmic contraction acts as a force pump maintaining the circulation of the blood’ (Merriam-Webster Dictionary). Well, we know that now—but people didn’t always understand that. In ancient times the heart was thought to be centre of many things—except the circulation of the blood (discovered by William Harvery in 1628). Before then the ancient Egyptians, Greek Chinese, and Germanic tribes (including the early Anglo-Saxons in England) had weird ideas of what the heart did. From around 1387 learning something ‘by heart’ meant: ‘from memory; so as to be able to repeat or write out correctly and without assistance what has been learnt; by rote’ (Oxford English Dictionary). The Oxford goes on to say that in early Germanic languages (such as Old English) the word ‘heart’ was used to mean: ‘courage; the heart as seat of life, of feeling, of thought, or of the will; centre; inner part; most important part.’ In thinking this way they were just following the ancient world. The Egyptians believed that the heart recorded one’s good and bad deeds, and that the gods weighed one’s heart after death to determine whether the soul would enter the afterlife or be destroyed. In ancient Chinese, the pictograph 心 (xin) originally referred solely to the anatomical organ, but by the late fourth century BC it meant the mind as well, and is often translated by sinologists as “heart-mind.”’ the Greek philosopher Aristotle described the heart as the organ of sensation. I suppose we might wonder why this happened. My best guess is that when ancient anatomists opened up corpses they found the organ of the heart more or less central to the chest, so they concluded it must the ‘central’ organ—that measured, remembered, and sent out all the orders. At the same time they had no idea what the grey stuff inside the skull was or what it did. And as their heirs, to this day we say that we learn stuff ‘off by heart.’

The Bonza Brigade Just a few days ago I wrote about the great old Aussie word ‘bonza’. (There are two spellings, either ‘bonzer’ or ‘bonza’—and I have decided to use the second of those for the time being.) My plan, you’ll recall, is for us to engage in a modest, low-key campaign to make bonza once again a part of our living language. It’s a great word—a wonderful and colourful piece of Aussie English. But now, because our language is living and vibrant, always developing and changing—it is inevitable that some old expressions will die out and be replaced by new, inventive Aussie coinages. It’s a process we can’t control and can’t stop. What every user of Aussie English chooses to use, becomes our language. (Language is the most democratic institution of earth. No one governs or controls it—no one, that is, except for the mass of people who use it.) But sometimes, those of us who’ve been around the block a time or two will see an expression fading away and regret its passing. Such as in the case of ‘bonza’. And there’s nothing wrong with us trying to give it mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and breathe new life into it. If you also like the word ‘bonza’ and you’d like to sign up for this campaign there is only one thing to so—use it! Use it more often! Try to work it into your conversation at least once every day. This is a campaign that has no joining fee, no meetings to attend, and no forms to fill in. All you need to do is say aloud the word ‘bonza’ from time to time. In fact, you can also write it. How about putting ‘bonza’ from time to time in an email or a text message? Instead of saying (or writing) ‘good’ or ‘well done’ or ‘congratulations’ or ‘that’s an achievement’ or ‘I’m very proud of you’ or whatever—how about making a mental note to yourself to say (or write) ‘bonza’ instead? That’s it. When you do that you become a fully active, fully signed-up member of the ‘Bonza Brigade.’ And to those journalists and broadcasters who read this column—your voice is an amplified one: so get on board and join the Bonza Brigade. I will try to remember to make use of it on radio and on Sky News (and in my magazine columns). But you don’t need to be using ‘bonza’ in public—anyone, anywhere can be a Bonza Brigade activist: in conversations, on social media, when encouraging your children or grandchildren (it’s time they learned the word) and just about anywhere. The Bonza Brigade hereby formally and officially welcomes you on board!

Pulling an Albo James Morrow, writing in The Daily Telegraph has coined the expression ‘pulling an Albo’—which he says means: ‘looking busy while achieving nothing.’ James Morrow himself says that someone is ‘pulling an Albo’ if they ‘spend all day looking busy while actually avoiding anyone (such as the boss) who might make their day more difficult.’ Aussie English has a number of expressions for the useless worker who never actually achieves anything. The classic expression is ‘bludger’—which began life as London criminal slang for a prostitute’s pimp. The word comes from ‘bludgeoner’ (recorded 1856)—meaning a pimp who bludgeons (beats with a stick) troublesome clients (or just any of the prostitute’s clients in order to rob them). ‘Bludger’ faded out of use in London, but made its way to the Australian colonies, where it’s recorded in 1882. By 1900 it was being used as a general term of abuse for a lazy loafer. About the same time the back formation ‘bludge’ arose, meaning ‘to evade one’s own responsibilities and impose on others.’ Interestingly, as evidence of Australia’s impact on American English, ‘bludger’ appears in the 11th edition of Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary which defines ‘bludging’ as ‘goofing off.’ However, most of the citations in the Oxford English Dictionary come from Australia. For better or for worse, this is our word! But there’s more—there are other names for the same type of person. Someone who is a ‘morphine’ is a slow working dope; a ‘suitcase’ is someone who has to be carried by the rest of the team; while a ‘seaweed’ is someone who floats around doing nothing. Then there’s ‘coffee badging’—the practice of being physically present at the workplace just long enough to have coffee or to meet attendance expectations before returning to remote work. (In other words, you dash in and have a coffee in the open office space where the boss can see you—then dash off again!) Our current Prime Minister, Anthony Albanese (like Gough Whitlam before him) has no interest in economics and appears to know nothing about economics—and so does nothing about protecting our standard of living. He looks busy but achieves nothing. That’s ‘pulling an Albo.’ Will it catch on? The rule is—new expressions catch if, and only if, lots of people start using them. So, it’s up to you dear reader!

Hate speech In the aftermath of the assassination of Charlie Kirk the debate continues over free speech. At the heart of the debate is this question: just how free can free speech be? What limits (in any) should there be without falling into the trap of censorship and shutting down free speech. And here is (I think) the test: does free speech mean allowing  ‘hate speech’? The expression ‘hate speech’ is older that I would have guessed—going as far back as 1938—and it means ‘A speech or address inciting hatred or intolerance’ (Oxford English Dictionary) Should that be allowed in the name of free speech? I think the answer is yes—does that shock you? Let me explain. There are always limits on free speech. For instance, there will always be (as there should be) laws against defamation and plagiarism. And the big red line (always forbidden) speech that incites violence. But beyond those obvious limits I am suggesting there should be no restrictions. People can tell lies and can express hatred—that is what free speech means. After the 2013 election George Brandis was Attorney General in the Abbott government. In that role he tried to change the Racial Discrimination Act, arguing that the Act unduly restricted free speech in Australia, by making ‘insult’ and ‘offence’ illegal. If you really believe in free speech you will believe that people have the right to insult you. And if someone’s speech makes you feel offended—well, that’s the price we all pay for having free speech. As a Christian I find blasphemy offensive. But we have dispensed with laws against blasphemy because free speech is more important. Once we shut down free speech one thing that is certain is that I will be banned from talking about, or advocating, for the Christian worldview. Every attempt to limit free speech is dangerous (allowing for the obvious limitations). The Left in America is just discovering that. They opposed free speech for years, and now their own side is being punished they realise that any limitation on free speech will come back to bite you. As George Brandis famously said, free speech means the allowing the bigots to speak (as long as they don’t incite violence). There is no agreement on what counts as ‘hate speech.’ So ‘hate speech’ must be allowed under free speech, or it will not be free at all. Lies must be allowed (as long as they are not defamatory). It takes courage and common sense to support real free speech—both qualities that are in missing in action at the moment.

Noisome John, a regular reader (and frequent asker of questions) asks today about the word ‘noisome’. Does it (he asks) have anything to do with ‘noise’? The answer John is—not originally. From the 1500s onwards ‘noisome’ meant a bad smell. If it really ponged it was ‘noisome.’ What makes it confusing is that in ‘noisome’ the first syllable is not about noise, but comes from the verb ‘to annoy.’ So from the earliest days (and that means back in the 1300s) anything that was annoying or troublesome was ‘noisome’. But over the centuries this meaning narrowed down and came to refer to just one source of annoyance—an annoying smell. And this was the standard meaning from the 1500s until today (and for educated people it still is). But from 1925 it took on the addition meaning, namely ‘an annoying noise.’ This meaning was imposed on the word by people who were ignorant of its history and meaning. They saw something that looked a little bit like ‘noise’ in the word and jumped to the (ill-informed) conclusion that it must have something to do with loud and irritating stuff. This mistaken secondary meaning was expressed in a 1927 novelty song ‘What Noise Annoys an Oyster?’ This came out from a couple of English music hall performers—Billy Curtis wrote the words, and Frank Crumit wrote the music (and sang the song). Here’s how it begins:

Lots of folks are worried over how they'll pay the rent

Some folks are annoyed because they can't lay up a cent

Others are perplexed about the latest picture show

But there is really only just one thing I'd like to know

What kind of a noise annoys an oyster?

No matter what I do, the answer won't come through.

What kind of a noise annoys an oyster?

That's a question I would like an answer to.

The answer, of course, was: a noisy noise annoys an oyster most. But all you need to remember is that (for educated people) ‘noisome’ has nothing to do with ‘noise’—it assaults your nose not your ears. (Something to drop on your friends at your next dinner party!)

2025-9-23 Removalist I often rabbit on about the inventiveness of the Australian language. And one point I like to make is that Aussies have not just coined our distinctive (and often witty) slang—but lots of ordinary (non-slang) words as well; words that are distinctive to us, were coined here, and are either rare or unknown outside Australia. For instance, what we call a ‘home unit’ would be a ‘flat’ in London and an ‘apartment’ in New York. Although I suspect me might be losing this one—younger Aussies no longer speak of ‘home units’ and instead seemed to have adopted the American ‘apartment.’ (The good news is that we seem not to have adopted that awful Americanism ‘condominium’ yet!) ‘Above ground pool’ is an Australian coinage, not heard elsewhere. As is ‘removalist.’ The background is that linguists no longer speak about “the English language” as if it were a single thing – now that it’s become the global language they speak about “Englishes.” One of these is, of course, the dialect of English that we speak – Aussie English. And “Aussie English” means more than just slang (that’s the point I’m making). As native speakers we can easily not notice that there are many everyday words that distinctively Australian. For instance ‘removalist’ is a common enough looking word meaning “a person or firm engaged in household or business removals” – but it happens to be an Australian coinage (first recorded by the great Sid Baker in his1959 book The Drum). The full Oxford English Dictionary acknowledges ‘removalist’ as an Aussie verbal invention. What made this word so deeply embedded in Aussie English was possibly David Williamson’s 1971 play The Removalists– which became a movie in 1975, and has often been revived and set as a study text for students. So, if the rest don’t say ‘removalist’ what do they say? The most common liable for such people (in both Britain and America) is ‘furniture mover’ (or, sometimes, ‘furniture shifter’). Apparently, the Yanks have picked up ‘removalist’ from us, and sometimes use our word. But we invented it. It’s ours!

Removalist I often rabbit on about the inventiveness of the Australian language. And one point I like to make is that Aussies have not just coined our distinctive (and often witty) slang—but lots of ordinary (non-slang) words as well; words that are distinctive to us, were coined here, and are either rare or unknown outside Australia. For instance, what we call a ‘home unit’ would be a ‘flat’ in London and an ‘apartment’ in New York. Although I suspect me might be losing this one—younger Aussies no longer speak of ‘home units’ and instead seemed to have adopted the American ‘apartment.’ (The good news is that we seem not to have adopted that awful Americanism ‘condominium’ yet!) ‘Above ground pool’ is an Australian coinage, not heard elsewhere. As is ‘removalist.’ The background is that linguists no longer speak about “the English language” as if it were a single thing – now that it’s become the global language they speak about “Englishes.” One of these is, of course, the dialect of English that we speak – Aussie English. And “Aussie English” means more than just slang (that’s the point I’m making). As native speakers we can easily not notice that there are many everyday words that distinctively Australian. For instance ‘removalist’ is a common enough looking word meaning “a person or firm engaged in household or business removals” – but it happens to be an Australian coinage (first recorded by the great Sid Baker in his1959 book The Drum). The full Oxford English Dictionary acknowledges ‘removalist’ as an Aussie verbal invention. What made this word so deeply embedded in Aussie English was possibly David Williamson’s 1971 play The Removalists – which became a movie in 1975, and has often been revived and set as a study text for students. So, if the rest don’t say ‘removalist’ what do they say? The most common liable for such people (in both Britain and America) is ‘furniture mover’ (or, sometimes, ‘furniture shifter’). Apparently, the Yanks have picked up ‘removalist’ from us, and sometimes use our word. But we invented it. It’s ours!