Kel's previous Ozwords of the day...

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Santa Ana winds People have died, and thousands upon thousands of buildings have been destroyed in Los Angeles—because of the rapid spread of what the Americans call ‘wildfires’ (what we call ‘bush fires’). And we told that the reason the fires spread to fast is because of the ‘Santa Ana winds’ (also called the ‘devil winds’). So, what are the ‘Santa Ana winds’? They are very hot winds that arise inland, in the deserts to the east of California, in just the same way that very hot air comes over our coastal cities from the hot interior of Australia. They are called ‘katabatic winds’ because they are flowing a sloping land from elevated deserts. This name comes from the Greek word katabasis meaning ‘descent’—because (obviously) the hot, dry air is descending from the high deserts. They can also be called a ‘föhn-type’—from a German word meaning a west wind, which the Romans called Favonius (the Latin name for the Greek mythological figure of Zephyrus—from which we get our English word ‘zephyr’). The Oxford defines the ‘Santa Ana wind’ as a hot, dry, föhn-type wind of desert origin, frequently strong and dust-laden, which blows on the coastal plain of southern California after being channelled and heated during its descent of the Santa Ana Mountains. So they wind gets its name from the name of the mountain range through which it blows—the Santa Ana Mountains (a short, peninsular mountain range, south-east of the Los Angeles basic). So, what is happening is the air heats up in the deserts, air pressure causes it to flow westward, this brings it down the mountain range, and as the winds are squeezed through narrow valleys that action speeds up the winds. The result are the destructive, hot, dry winds that have fanned and spread the Los Angeles wildfires. Oh, and the mountains are called ‘Santa Ana’ after Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna, Mexican revolutionary leader and president—or possibly not, no one is sure. Whew! That was a bunch words to explain one wind. But now it’s all perfectly clear! (Or is it?)

Thesaurus Day Two days ago (January 18) was National Thesaurus Day in America. This is something we have never heard of in Australia (hence, I missed it!) So, let’s catch up. First, what is a ‘thesaurus’? The word appears to have been coined in English in 1823 by George Crab (1768-1851) in his Universal technological dictionary: or familiar explanations of the terms used in all arts and sciences. Crabb wasan English legal and miscellaneous writer. He published a number of dictionaries, including his often-reprinted Dictionary of English Synonyms. But why January 18? Because that is the birthday of Peter Mark Roget, the writer of the most famous thesaurus of them all: Roget’s Thesaurus. He was born on January 18, 1779 (he died in 1869). His landmark thesaurus was first published in 1852. The original edition had 15,000 words and each successive edition has been larger, being updated regularly. The most recent edition (the 8th) is up to around 443,000 words. The Oxford defines a ‘thesaurus’ as ‘a collection of concepts or words arranged according to sense’. Each entry in Roget lists a number of words that say (approximately) the same thing—but each with a slightly different shade of meaning. So by consulting an entry inRogert’s Thesaurus you can find the exact word you want, with the precise meaning you want to convey. And Peter Mark Roget compiled his great dictionary not alphabetically, but by grouping concept words according to their range of meanings. The word ‘thesaurus’ comes from ancient Greek and means ‘a treasury or storehouse.’ Which is exactly what the clever Mr Roget has given us. (Or, I should say, Dr Roget—he was a physician by profession.) Mind you, one of my grandsons insists that ‘thesaurus’ should mean ‘a dinosaur that knew a lot of words’! To the best of my knowledge, National Thesaurus Day has never been celebrated here in Australia, or, I think, in Britain—which is very slack of us! The American ‘Holidays Calendar’ website says who started this holiday, and how and why, is unknown. (Mind you, having a ‘day’ to celebrate everything and everyone is a very American habit!) And I should inform you (in case you don’t already know) that there is now a website called thesaurus.com. On that site they say that: ‘One of the most direct benefits of using a thesaurus is that it helps you avoid repetition. No reader wants to slog through a book or article in which the writer keeps using the exact same descriptive words over and over again.’ All of which I agree with. So, Happy Thesaurus Day (for two days ago).

Oligarchy During his 17-minute televised farewell address to the American people Joe Biden warned that America is falling under the control of an ‘oligarchy.’ In fact, most of what Biden said in the final address was dark, bleak and painted a grim picture of the future of America (so different from the confidence of most American presidents!) And the result of his dark warning of an ‘oligarchy’ seen a bunch of requests for me to unpack this word, and take a look at its history. First, then, the meaning. An ‘oligarchy’ is (from the Oxford English Dictionary): ‘Government by a small group of people; a form of government in which the exercise of power is restricted to a few people or families (in later use, frequently a wealthy elite).’ If Joe Biden is correct then this would, obviously, be a threat to democracy. And he is clearly feeling bitter that billionaires such as Elon Musk, Jeff Bezos (of Amazon), Mark Zuckerberg (of Facebook), Bill Gates and others are now friends of Donald Trump and support his administration. But is he correct? Billionaires have always been admired in America, and have always been listened to by the major political parties (to whom they have been generous donors). In the past billionaires such as Mark Zuckerberg have openly supported Biden. So, perhaps, his dire warning is just annoyance that they have switched sides? And Biden has just awarded the ‘Medal of Freedom’ to two of his billionaire friends: George Soros and Michael Bloomberg. But even if Biden is cranky rather than sincere, is there (nevertheless) the risk of ‘oligarchy’ replacing ‘democracy’ in America? The second part of those words is ‘-archy’—which has what the Oxford calls ‘multiple origins’, drawing on both Latin and Greek. What it means is ‘rule’ or ‘government.’ So a ‘monarchy’ recognises a monarch (king or queen) as ruler (perhaps within constitutional limitations). ‘Democracy’ means ‘rule (or government) by the people’ (from the Greek demos meaning people). ‘Oligarchy’ means rule by the few (from the Greek oligos meaning small, little or few). Against that background, is Joe Biden’s warning possible? No. At least, I can’t see how his bleak forecast could happen. The position of president has to face election every four years; members of the House of Representatives in Congress face election every two years; and half the members of the Senate have an election every six years. Just like Australia, in the end the people have the final say. So, it’s hard to see how democracy could be overturned. Or have I got that wrong?

Legacy The word ‘legacy’ has been turning up in the news recently. With Joe Biden due to leave office in three days there is much talk of what his ‘legacy’ will be. And because this will be Donald Trump second (and, hence, lasts) term as president he will be focussed (according to the commentators) on his ‘legacy.’ At the end of last year when Jimmy Carter died there was also much of talk of what the Carter ‘legacy’ was. All of which started me looking at this word. Used in the way we are talking about it seems to have bobbed up around 1485 when ‘legacy’ started to be used to mean a bequest—what someone leaves behind them as a gift to others. The Merriam-Webster Third Internation Unabridged defines ‘legacy’ (in this sense) as: ‘something transmitted by or received from an ancestor or predecessor or from the past.’ But there is an earlier use of the word—a ‘legacy’ could be the action of a ‘legate.’ So, what (you ask) is or was a ‘legate’? (You’re very good at the follow-up questions!) Well, a ‘legate’ was a delegate or a deputy—someone sent to represent someone else. An ambassador is a kind ‘legate’ in this sense. A group of people representing Australia at an international event could be called the Australian ‘legation.’ And this is the oldest meaning of the word (recorded from around 1384). This comes from a Latin source word lēgātus meaning exactly that—a deputy or representative. So, how did we get from the earliest meaning of the word ‘legacy’ to this most common meaning today of a bequest? It seems that over the years the notion developed that if you received something from a deputy of representative—whether it’s a gift or a commitment or whatever—you held it from them as a ‘legacy.’ At least that seems to me to be the progress of the word through the English language. With all that in mind, what will Joe Biden’s legacy be? Here’s my suggestion (you may have a better)—the Biden Legacy will be: ‘Know When It’s Time to Go!’

Boofhead Yesterday I shared an expression (‘Sad Sack’) was born in a comic strip. And that has inspired me to continue in that vein (as MAD Magazine used to say: ‘humour in a jugular vein’) with a distinctively Aussie coinage that also comes from the comics. ‘Boofhead’ is Australian slang for a stupid person, a fool, a blockhead, a fat head. This became popular, and gained its wide currency, from a comic strip called Boofheadwritten and drawn by R D Clark from 1939. It appeared in the Sydney Daily Mirror from May 1941 until Clark’s death in 1970. Several collections of the comic strip were published as comic books in the 1950s. Again this takes me back to my childhood (how about you?)—because there were still slightly battered old copies of Boofhead comic books around when I was a small boy. Boofhead’s name was a description of his character. For instance, when his doctor asked: ‘Did my medicine do you any good?’ Boofhead replied: ‘It was a wonderful remedy, doctor. I took three spoonfuls and my cough went. I rubbed four spoonfuls into my knee and it cured my rheumatism, and I just left my mother at home using the rest of it to clean the silver.’ Sadly, I have been unable to discover anything about the cartoonist creator of ‘Boofhead’ R. D. Clark. He appears not to get a guernsey in the Australian National Dictionary of Biography, and he doesn’t even have a stub on Wikipedia. So, if you know anything about Clark, please pass it on. His character of ‘Boofhead’ was greatly loved by distinguished Australian artist Martin Sharp (1942-2013) who was famous for his obsessions with Luna Park, Tiny Tim, and the word ‘Eternity’ (as drawn by Arthur Stace “Mr Eternity’). And he included ‘Boofhead’ among his pop art creations—including images of the Boofhead character in a number of his paintings. But what about the word itself? Well, it probably derives from an old English dialect word ‘bufflehead’ (dating back to at least 1659). And that is a word that explains itself—if your brain is not working too well then you are a ‘bufflehead.’ Now, imagine that word spoken with a Yorkshire accent. It would come out something along the lines of BOOF-full-head. And that seems to be the origin of the word that R. D. Clark chose as the name of his comic strip character. These days it is distinctively Australian, and you can baffle anyone from overseas by referring to someone as a ‘a bit of a boofhead.’ And once again I must ask—is ‘boofhead’ still being used? Has it been forgotten by the young? Is it only the oldsters keeping it alive?

Sad Sack In the early days of the Internet Anu Garg created his famous ‘A Word A Day’ newsletter. A native of the state of Uttar Pradesh in northern India, he now lives in the United States (in Seattle) with his wife and daughter. Garg paints, juggles, unicycles, invents new words and writes books. His website is called ‘Wordsmith’ and is worth checking out at wordsmith.org. But all this is by way of background. Only a short time ago one of Anu Garg’s ‘words of the day’ was ‘Sad Sack’—and suddenly I remembered a comic strip character from my childhood. We tend to us the expression ‘Sad Sack’ these days to mean an unhappy person. If someone around us is looking a little glum we might try to cheer them up by giving them a pat on the back and saying (in our brightest voice) ‘Come on, don’t be a Sad Sack.’ But when you come to think about it, this is an odd combination of words. Why should we think of sacks as being particularly sad? Well, ‘Sad Sack’ began as a piece of American military slang. It’s first recorded in 1942 as the caption to a cartoon that appeared an army magazine called Yank. It became the first of a series of cartoons about the misadventures of a hapless army recruit. The creator of the cartoon series was George Baker (1915-1975) who had been a cartoonist for Walt Disney before being called up for military service. His character continued to feature in a series of comic strips in Yank (reportedly the most popular feature in the magazine) throughout the war. When Baker returned to civilian life he transformed the Sad Sack army cartoon into a syndicated comic strip and a comic book series aimed at younger readers. This what I can remember from my childhood. It turned out that people could relate to ‘Sad Sack’ and as a comic character. As a result, he appeared in his own radio series in 1946, and he was played by Jerry Lewis in his 1957 movie The Sad Sack. But where did the name come from? George Baker never really explained that, although it seems likely that it was just the alliteration (the repetition of the ‘S’ sound) that he exploited in coining the name, and that also contributed to the memorable nature of the character. Originally a ‘Sad Sack’ was more than just miserable. From his earliest days he was portrayed as an inept, foolish, or pathetic person and something of a social misfit (that’s the definition from the Oxford English Dictionary). Now here’s my question—is ‘Sad Sack’ an expression still in use today? Does the younger generation ever use it? (If they do, they’d have no idea of its origin!) Or has it vanished into the mists of time?

Cheer up! Between Christmas and New Year the clever Greg Craven published a column in The Australian newspaper about the state of the English language. And I have been thinking about what he wrote ever since. Basically, he was feeling very glum about our language. He was muttering grimly through gritted teeth that our language is going to the dogs. He was definitely down among the wines and spirits. He refers (bitterly) to ‘the entire, simpering English language.’ Then he almost breaks down and cries, writing: ‘I mourn for the English of Donne, Milton and Eliot. For that matter, I pine for the English of Enid Blyton.’ Greg has my sympathy. I too wish there were more great prose writers today (but Bill Bryson is still writing Greg, remember that). But I can’t agree with him that everything is going to pot in every direction, and with no source of hope. Greg Craven writes: ‘recently, the corporate cluster and it’s public sector clones have surpasses themselves in manufacturing new, meaningless strings of words that can substitute for actual language.’ Yes, of course, there are sectors of the community who bash language into a bland, meaningless mess of syllables. But there always have been. I suspect the language used by the clerks of Shakespeare’s day was just as bad. And every time linguistic rubbish is foisted on us, there are people who will raise their voices and protest. It’s something the Ozwords Gottcha Gang takes great pleasure in doing. When the prime minister talks about antisemitism and the strongest word he can think of is ‘unacceptable’ we all point out that there is much stronger language available. And while some sectors are turning language into a dreadful drone—there are others coming up with clever new coinages. As an example, I offer you the two I mentioned yesterday: ‘clock blocking’ and ‘coffee badging’—both new, both inventive, and both (in their own way) clever uses of English. So, I want to put an arm around Greg Craven’s shoulders and assure him that all is not gloom, doom and despair. The English language is too strong to be killed—even by ‘corporate speak’ or by politicians and bureaucrats. Whatever we think of the abbreviations used in texting, and the slang of the internet, these are growing branches of English that are totally out of control! Which is, on the whole a good thing. The lousy ones will die, and any clever ones that emerge will survive. English is like that. As for the Australian branch of English—it is as strong as a Mallee bull and as bright as a box of budgies. So, Greg, cheer up—keep writing well yourself, correct those who butcher the language, and join us at the barricades. 

RTO For the last few years (ever since Covid) the dominant TLI (Three-Letter Initialism) has been WFH (Work from Home). We are told that in 2025 this will switch to RTO (Return to the Office). Personally I think this is ridiculous—WFH it is better for families—better for the kids (someone to drop them off and pick them up from school), better for the budget (no travel costs, no costly cups of coffee and café lunches) and just better all round. But I seem to be the only one sensible enough to see this—hence the push for RTO. And, I am told, one result as been new (creative) responses to RTO. The first of these responses is called ‘clock blocking.’ Ah, a new expression! Already I can see your face lighting up with interest. I am told that ‘clock blocking’ involves ‘blocking out’ certain times of the day during which (you explain) you will be unavailable for meetings or conferences. For instance, a WFH Dad might say that three to three-thirty PM is ‘blocked out’ every afternoon—because that’s when he picks up the kids from school. ‘Clock blocking’ can also mean ‘blocking out’ hours after designated office hours, so that (even if you do some work in the evening) the boss (and other team members) cannot call you after a set time. A work-life balance thing. So far, so good, that is one that’s easy to understand. But the other new expression is a little odder: ‘coffee badging.’ This means some who comes into the office in the morning—perhaps long enough to be seen by the boss and to have a morning coffee, and then leaves and works from home for the rest of the day. In other words it involves starting the workday at the office for a few hours before heading home to complete tasks remotely. But why is it called ‘coffee badging’? The online Urban Dictionary offers this explanation: it says that ‘coffee badging’ consists of going into the office building for the morning coffee, “badging in’” for the day, and then going home to work for the remainder of the day. This makes it sound as if “badging in” is the same thing as signing on (or punching in on the bundy clock—does anyone else remember that?) Classically (from the 1400s) ‘badging’ has meant marking in some way—so, I suppose, you get marked as ‘present’, have your coffee and then nick off. But none of the major dictionaries has yet caught up with either ‘clock blocking’ or ‘coffee badging’—which means that you are now way ahead of the curve!

Queer I am currently reading (or to be honest, re-reading) a classic book of detective short stories by G.K. Chesterton. Published as long ago as 1905, this was Chesterton’s first book of detective stories—even before he had invented his legendary detective Father Brown (as you know, a character still flourishing in a BBC TV series). This old book by Chesterton is called The Club of Queer Trades. Now, just look at that title for a moment—would any publisher be game to publish such a title these days? The cancel culture mob would be screaming for the blood of anyone foolish enough to use the word ‘queer’ in that sort of book title in the 21stcentury. And Chesterton is not the only one. In the 1930s John Dickson Carr (the master of locked rooms and impossible crimes) published a book of short stories called The Department of Queer Complaints (feature Colonel March as the detective). In Chesterton’s book the ‘club’ in the title is a club only open to those who have invented an entirely original way of earning a living—a new trade that no one has ever thought of before. And both Chesterton and Carr are using the word ‘queer’ in its established meaning of ‘Strange, odd, peculiar, eccentric’ (Oxford English Dictionary). Back when I was a schoolboy if we saw something out of the ordinary it was perfectly legitimate for us to remark: ‘That’s looks a bit queer.’ This old meaning of ‘queer’ has been part of the English language since around 1513. It seems to come from a Germanic source word quer meaning (among other things): ‘transverse, oblique, crosswise, at right angles.’ The word was also used (from around 1749) to mean unwell, as in ‘I’m feeling a bit queer.’ However, from 1914 ‘queer’ is recorded as meaning a homosexual person. It was, the Oxford says, an American colloquial expression originally intended to be both derogatory and offensive. But as has happened so often in the history of language, a word used in a derogatory way was taken up by the people it was applied to, and embraced by them as their word. The Oxford comments: ‘Originally used provocatively by LGBT activists such as members of the Queer Nation organization, it was intended to convey an assertive and radical alternative to conventional notions of sexuality and gender as part of a wider campaign in response to the AIDS crisis.’ What it boils down to, is that the old word is no longer available to users of the English language. Another old word bites the dust!

Unalive Five days ago (or thereabouts) I wrote about the peculiar negative expression ‘unsee’—today another, even odder, negative has bobbed up: ‘unalive.’ The Grammarphobia website says that ‘unalive’ is cropping up more and more online. They go on to add that ‘unalive’ is being used to mean ‘to kill’ and that this usage first appeared around a dozen years ago. But I would suggest that this is a new meaning for an older word. ‘Unalive’ is recorded from 1828, making its first appearance in a book of Leigh Hunt’s essays. But when it first burst upon the language scene it was not nearly so lethal. Instead of meaning ‘kill’ or ‘put to death’ or anything as final as that, originally ‘unalive’ meant something like ‘unaware.’ In fact, the big Merriam-Webster Dictionary still defines ‘unalive’ as meaning ‘slow of perception or feeling’ and go on to suggest that suitable synonym would be ‘unalert.’ The Oxford agrees, defining ‘unalive’ as meaning ‘not fully susceptible or awake to something’ or ‘lacking in vitality.’ In fact, I think we all understand that meaning. When we are exhausted we might respond to someone who asks how we are by saying: ‘Feeling pretty dead today.’ By that we don’t mean we’ve taken our pulse and found a reading of zero—just that we are lacking energy, alertness and vitality. Then along come the social media and blogging community who seem to be totally unaware of the existing word and its established meaning, and instead start using ‘unalive’ as a synonym for ‘dead.’ These days Dictionary.com describes the verb as slang meaning ‘to kill (oneself or another person)’—which is pretty grim. Apparently (according to Dictionary.com) social websites have automated censoring devices that pick out the words they been programmed to pick out, and wipe you off the site. Among those ‘trigger’ words are anything to do with death or killing. So, to get around the smart/stupid machines (that only recognise the exact sequence of letters fed into them) users employ the awkward neologism ‘unalive.’ (I call it a ‘neologism’ because this is clearly different from the earlier word.) In a similar way, social media users who want report, or condemn, a rape cannot use that word (the computers have been programmed to recognise ‘rape’ and delete any entry containing it). So, instead, they write ‘r*pe’ and everyone knows what they’re talking about—but they’ve beaten the machines. And that’s that same source that has given us the modern meaning of ‘unalive.’

The 4D words Yesterday I wrote about Peter Bowler and his famous series of books that started with The Superior Person’s Little Book of Words in 1976. Sequels came in 1991, 1996, and 2001.But with his last book in 2008 he did something different. In those early books he was encouraging his readers to play the game of using difficult or obscure words to baffle and impress their hearers. But then he realised that politicians and governments were playing his little game for real—they were using obscure and baffling words so that people would not realise what they were doing and what they were wasting money on. It infuriated Peter Bowler that the ‘big words’ game was being played for such nefarious purposes, so he wrote his last book, which was called The Superior Person’s Field Guide to Deceitful, Deceptive and Downright Dangerous Language. There’s where the ‘4D words’ come from. His book is a guide to the ‘4D words’ used by governments and officials of all sorts to keep the truth from us— ‘4D words’ are: Deceitful, Deceptive and Downright Dangerous. Here are some of the words that Peter drew our attention to in his little ‘field guide’ book. 

‘Consultancy fee’: an expression used by governments to cover the payment of huge fees to their old colleagues and friends. 

‘Classified’: a word used to mean that they are keeping something secret from the public (classified as what? That would be right correct response). 

‘Efficiency gains’ just means budget cuts. 

‘Frank exchange of views’ means a meeting in which people shouted at each other. 

‘Downsizing’ means sacking half the staff. 

‘Golden parachute’ means paying millions to a boss who is sacked for incompetence so he (it’s usually a ‘he’) will go away quietly and won’t let out any secrets. 

‘Accessible parking’: which means, of course, ‘disabled parking’ but this label is used so as ‘not to give offense’; but is it confusing and unhelpful (is there any such thing as ‘Inaccessible Parking’? If there was, it would be of no use to anyone).

’Resources’: formerly known as staff, or just ‘human beings.’ 

‘Investigate’: to spend a lot of time and money to delay letting the public know what’s actually going on. 

‘Freedom fighter’: a terrorist who is blowing up people you don’t like. 

‘Leverage’: meaning you have the photographs, and you can blackmail someone into doing what you want them to do. 

‘Massaging the numbers’: means telling the Treasury Department to hide the bad news in footnotes so that no one notices. 

There are, of course, lots more. You should look for Peter Bowler’s little book. But it does make you rather depressed about the state of the language being used by our masters and betters, doesn’t it?

Superior words Peter Bowler published the first book in his series of The Superior Person’s Little Book of Words in 1976. Sequels came in 1991, 1996, 2001, and 2008. They slightly resembled the Readers’ Digest’s old ‘It Pays to Increase Your Word Power’ page, but with a much more snobbish purpose. Peter told me his intention was to equip his readers with verbal tools that would baffle hearers and win grovelling submission to a (clearly) superior brain. Peter Bowler was a spare-time author, his main work lay in his forty years in education policy and management, in both public and private sectors. He wrote his original trilogy of Superior Person’s Words books as a great game. Most of the entries were genuine, but some were spun out of his fertile imagination—and it was up to the reader to pick out which was which! Now, five years after Peter’s passing, an American website is trying to play the same game by offering a list of ‘Twenty Words That Will Make You Sound Smart.’ But is their list really all that smart? It consists of the following list of so-called ‘smart’ words: axiomatic, capitulate, avant-garde, aplomb, ennui, anomaly, facetious, aplomb, acquiesce, scintillating, solipsistic, glib, cacophony, fastidious, perfunctory, panacea, non sequitur, equivocate, dichotomy, paradigm, and ubiquitous. Really? All these are part of the working vocabulary of every Ozwords reader! My six-year-old grandson knows ‘cacophony’—which he learned from one of Lynley Dodd’s ‘Hairy Maclary’ books. On top of which, they can’t count—there are 21 words on their list. Instead of these everyday words, why not try explaining to that noisy eater that their chewing is giving you a bad attack of ‘misophonia’—that will impress everyone at the table, and further Peter’s worthy project. (And you understand ‘misophonia’ because you met it here two days ago.) Here are a few more of Peter Bowler’s wonderous superior persons words: ‘circumambagious’ (speaking in a roundabout manner); ‘sesquipedalianism’ (addicted to the use of long words); and ‘obfuscation’ (deliberately using words that will obscure the meaning of what you’re saying). Playing Peter’s game is great fun, and will definitely make you stand out at your next dinner party!

Flaking Last night on ‘The Late Debate’ on Sky News I talked about a trendy new use of the word ‘flaking.’ According to news reports when people cancel appointments (or just fail to turn up for events) their behaviour is now labelled ‘flaking.’ We’ve been using the verb ‘to flake’ since at least 1513 (alright, not us personally, but our language)—so this is an old established word. The noun ‘flake’ preceded the verb by more than a century and had the meaning then it has now: ‘a minute exfoliated piece of something; a flattish fragment.’ And before you sneer at the Oxford’s slightly awkward definition remember: a simple common word can be hard to define precisely. As for where ‘flake’ (both noun and verb) came from—this is something of an etymological puzzle. There seem to be related words in many Germanic languages (possibly from an Aryan root). It might be related to words such as ‘flaw’ and ‘flat’ (well, I suppose if flakes are coming off something that’s a flaw, and those flakes are likely to be flat). But that’s not how it’s being used now. This new use of this old word describes a social (or, more correctly, antisocial) behaviour: ‘the cancelling of plans at often short notice owing to not being in the mood, feeling demotivated or tired, or wanting to do something else instead’ (The Guardian newspaper). Some observers think that this sort of ‘flaking’ has become common because the younger generation are feeling ‘burn out’. (I can hear lots of grey heads muttering ‘wimps!’) Social events are planned for evenings and weekends, and that’s when these ‘flaking’ types want to shut out the world and curl up on the lounge playing computer games. There’s also the question of whether our technology is doing this to people—who are connected to their devices and disconnected from each other. It seems to be a fairly recent re-purposing of an old word, with the earliest citation on the Urban Dictionary being from 2020. As to why Gen Z chose this word for this behaviour—I suggest that those who do it are making themselves into ‘small, exfoliated pieces that break away.’

Sesame When our (now adult) children were very small toddlers they watched Sesame Street (and we, of course, watched it with them—that’s what you do with toddlers, you watch with them and talk about what is happening on the screen). Back into those distant days Sesame Street was a good program for small children—with the letter of the day and the number of the day and so on. Young parents tell me it has gone off in more recent times, having been infected by the Woke virus. But that is just hearsay, so I have no idea if that is the case or not. However, the reason for mentioning this is that Sesame Street now appears to be at risk of demolition! According to a report published in USA Today the show (now in its 55th year) is about to be without a home, after Warner Brothers Discovery Channel decided not to renew its deal for airing the program’s new episodes. It would be a bit sad to see Elmo, Bert, Ernie and Big Bird join the ranks of the homeless and unemployed! But this whole report raises the issue of the name of the show. When Sesame Street was created by the Children’s Television Workshop we were told that the name came from the saying ‘open sesame.’ That expression, you’ll remember, comes from the famous fairy tale Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. Young Ali Baba overheard the secret password that caused the door of the mysterious treasure cave to slide open— ‘open sesame’—and later used it himself to gain access to the treasures inside the cave. But we can go back one more step, and look at the word ‘sesame’ itself. The Oxford says our English word ‘sesame’ comes from multiple sources, having been influenced by Latin, Greek and French. But always with the same meaning: ‘A widely cultivated East Indian plant, Sesamum indicum. Also, the seeds of this plant, from which an oil is pressed’ (Oxford). This word ‘sesame’ turns up (with this meaning) in English around 1440. That’s long before the Arabian tale of Ali Baba had appeared in English—which seems to have happened around 1785 in an English translation of a French re-telling of the tale. And here’s one oddity which will intrigue our circle of wordies—when ‘sesame’ was recorded in the first edition of the Oxford English Dictionary (in 1912) the pronunciation was given as sess-AH-mee (with the stress on the middle syllable). Today, of courses, we say SESS-uh-mee. I suspect that many familiar words in our language have changed their pronunciation over the centuries—this is just one of them.

Misophonia This is our first Weird Word for 2025—and it is delightfully Weird (but also, possibly, quite useful).’Misophonia’ is said by the boffins at the Oxford English Dictionary to be a recent coinage—the earliest citation they have is from 2001. And here’s their definition of ‘misophonia’— ‘A condition characterized by a strongly negative and atypical emotional and physiological response to certain sounds.’ The ‘-phonia’ part of this new word comes from a Latin source meaning ‘sound’, while the ‘miso-’ prefix comes from a Greek source meaning ‘hatred.’ I’m sure we can all think of sounds we hate. Everyone, it seems, hates the sound of fingernails on a blackboard. Mind you, since blackboards have disappeared from classrooms and lecture halls (replaced by white boards) this is a sound we are most unlikely to hear these days. And the sounds which the Oxford’s definition draws our attention to are small, repetitive sounds. The Oxford has a note saying: ‘Sounds which induce such a response are typically soft and repetitive. The most common are oral sounds, such as the sound of chewing or breathing, and clicking sounds, such as the sound of typing.’ Imagine you are stuck on a plane beside a passenger who chews in a noisy, irritating way. Your response should probably be called ‘misophonia.’ That 2001 and citation comes from a professional journal for audiologists (those people who test your hearing and tell you that you need hearing aids!). It says: ‘In cases of misophonia and phonophobia, the strength of the patient’s reaction is only partially determined by the physical characteristics of the upsetting sound.’ By the way, the word ‘phonophobia’ in that sentence means ‘fear of sounds’ or ‘intolerance of noise’—especially loud noise, especially if you have a migraine at the time! This is older, and has been used in this way since 1926. But back to ‘misophonia.’ I was trying to think of an example of a quiet, repetitive sound that provokes ‘misophonia’ in me. What I came up with was—a dripping tap. One of the most irritating (and hateful) things about dripping taps is that they are not exactly regular—you get one drip, and then another quickly, then it’s a bit longer until you hear the next one. Very irritating! Years ago I read an essay (by, I think, Julian Huxley) called “Water Music” about how the human brain tries to force such irregular dripping sounds to make a pattern. So, there you are— ‘misophonia’: Weird, quite new, possibly useful.

Unsee I’ve been intrigued recently by the verb ‘to unsee.’ It turns up as a snappy, or trendy, way of saying that something is unforgettable—often in a bad way. For instance, a character in a movie is exposed to something horrific, and then says that they’ll won’t be able to erase that horror from their memory— ‘I can’t unsee that.’ There is a video that has been compiled of the horrors of the terrorist attack by Palestine on Israel on October 7th 2023. Those politicians and journalists who have seen it say it is ‘seared into their retinas’—as horrific as it is, it is also unforgettable they say: you can’t ‘unsee’ this stuff. Mind you, the word can also be used in a lighter way. If you had thrown open a closed door and come across two of your neighbours kissing, you might not want to know about it (and be sorry you ever opened that door) but you can’t ‘unsee’ it what you have seen. It strikes me as an odd combination of the negative prefix ‘un’ with the verb ‘to see’ so I did a bit of digging. There was, it turns out, a very ancient verb ‘to unsee’ which is recorded from around 1395. The meaning of this old word was ‘To avoid seeing; to leave, or make, unseen’ (Oxford English Dictionary). It is officially classified as ‘rare’—and the Oxford only has three citations, the most recent from 1871. But that is not quite the word that is turning up these days, is it? The old ‘unsee’ seems to closely resemble Nelson putting his telescope to his blind eye in order to ‘unsee’ (not to see) the flags signalling that he should retreat. That’s not quite the modern meaning, which it better captured by the online Urban Dictionary: ‘Used to describe an object so horrific that it becomes seared into your retinas such that it can never be forgotten.’ The Urban Dictionary has a citation that dates this usage to 2007—making it very recent. The Collins Dictionary says that ‘unsee’ means: ‘to remove (something one has seen) from one’s consciousness.’ But these days it’s being used to say the opposite—that there is something that you can’t remove from your consciousness—even if you want to. The Merriam-Webster says that ‘to unsee’ means: ‘to avoid seeing.’ Again, that’s not how the expression is now being used. Nowadays it expresses the idea that you would have avoided seeing (whatever it was) if you could, but you’ve now seen it and can’t forget it. Only the Cambridge Dictionary captures the right idea, when it gives, as an example of the word ‘unsee’ in a sentence: ‘Once you have seen something, you can't unsee it.’ So, the Urban Dictionary might be right— ‘unsee’ (in this sense) might be a very recent coinage, and the dictionaries are just (slowly) starting to catch up.

Two Mickies I’ve been asked to explain the origin of “take the mickey”—meaning to make fun or someone or speak mockingly of them. This is of British origin and the earliest citation is from 1948. But who was the Mickey being referred to? The answer seems to be—no one is sure. One suggestion is that the full name was Mickey Bliss. If that is correct then the expression “taking the Mickey” is short for “taking the Mickey Bliss” which is rhyming slang. I won’t tell you want its rhyming slang for—since I think you can work this out for yourself. However, there is also the possibility that “Mickey Bliss” was a real person—either factual or fictional. Recently there was a BBC radio drama called Tommies set in World War One, and featuring a character called “Sergeant Mickey Bliss of the signals section.” So whether such a character might have existed in the British imagination and gave rise to the saying, or whether the character has been named after this “taking the mickey” expression we could possibly debate. Although it seems almost certain that the expression came first. And what about the expression “Mickey Finn” that turns up in American private eye stories as a slang term for knock-out drops, a drug that will send you unconscious. So, who was Mickey Finn? Michael Quinion, on his Worldwide Words website says there’s some doubt over the matter but Mickey Finn may have been the man of that name who ran the Lone Star Saloon and Palm Garden in Chicago from 1896 to December 1903. Most of what we know, or think we know, about Mr Finn’s activities comes from a 1940 book by Herbert Asbury called Gem of the Prairie (Mr Asbury also wrote The Gangs of New York, from which the Martin Scorsese film of 2002 was adapted). The establishment seems to have been a dive of the lowest kind, in which Finn fenced stolen goods, supervised pickpockets and ran prostitutes. He had a sideline, as Mr Asbury tells it, by which he drugged patrons with chloral hydrate, robbed them, and dumped them in an alley. But the earliest use of the expression “mickey finn” to mean a strong sedative is from 1915—which puts a gap between this man Mickey Finn and the sedative named after him. However, Mr Finn certainly existed, and his activities were recorded in the local press at the time. The Daily News wrote on 16 December 1903 about “‘Mickey’ Finn, proprietor of the Lone Star saloon”, which it reported as “the scene of blood-curdling crimes through the agency of drugged liquor” and the following day the Inter-Ocean headed a report: “Lone Star Saloon loses its license. ‘Mickey’ Finn’s alleged ‘knock-out drops’ ... put him out of business.” The Chicago locale for the 1918 scandal suggests that the term may have been circulating in the city underworld in the intervening years.