Kel's previous Ozwords of the day...

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Liberal Peta Credlin has asked me to do some research into the word ‘Liberal’—here are my first thoughts: only nine days ago the Liberal Party was massively defeated in the Australian federal election. Only a few days earlier the Liberal Party of Canada had enjoyed a huge victory in that country. Meanwhile, in Britain one of the minor political parties is called the Liberal-Democrats (‘Lib-Dems’ for short) who are the heirs of the crumbling remains of a once great party which was called the Liberal Party of the UK. On the other side of the Atlantic the Americans use the word ‘liberal’ in a political context to almost mean the same as ‘socialist.’ While in Australia ‘Liberal’ has long meant conservative. So, in political terms, this is a word of so many colours it needs some explaining. ‘Liberal’ is recorded in English from around 1384. It’s original meaning was simply ‘generous.’ A ‘liberal’ person was an open-handed, generous person. It comes from the Latin word liberalis which meant something like ‘worthy or typical of a free man’. This gave us the notion of the ‘liberal arts’—those areas of study worthy of being studied by a free man (especially a nobleman). And he was then expected to have this character of generosity—of being a ‘liberal’ man. This became a political word when it was used to mean ‘individual freedom, democracy with little state intervention’ (Oxford) from around 1761. And this was the meaning of ‘liberal’ embraced by Robert Menzies when he launched Australia’s Liberal Party in 1944 (out of the ashes of the old United Australia Party that preceded it). This is the sort of political liberalism that was argued for by British philosophers such as John Locke and John Stuart Mill. Menzies brought together two streams of political beliefs in his new party—these classical liberals I have just described and the conservatives (who wanted to conserve traditional values). Those two strands probably still exist in the Australian Liberal Party to this day. In Britain their Liberal Party was formed officially in 1868 from a coalition of Whigs and free trade Tories. But in American politics ‘liberal’ came to be used to mean ‘a person advocating political and social reform’ (Oxford). And this is why in the US ‘liberal’ means left wing while in Australia it means right wing. I’m starting to think that, when used politically, this is such a vague term that ‘Liberal’ has come to mean ‘Whatever I’m pointing at when I say it’! But, as I said, these are only first thoughts—more later.

Common sense I have wanted to write a column on ‘common sense’ for a long time—but it is a surprisingly difficult topic to write about. That’s because we instinctively, or intuitively, know what ‘common sense’ is, but it’s very hard to put into words. Particularly into words that are simple and straight forward—as simple straight forward as ‘common sense’ itself. You can see this struggle in the definition offered by the Longman Dictionary of Contemporary English, which says that ‘common sense’ means: ‘the ability to behave in a sensible way and make practical decisions.’ Which (when you look carefully at it) basically says that ‘common sense’ is, well, just common sense! You can see this when the definition uses words such as ‘sensible’ and ‘practical.’ Yes, I agree that both ‘sensible’ and ‘practical’ are synonyms for ‘common sense’—but they don’t actually unpack what is meant by this notion of ‘common sense.’ So, I tried, instead to check The Oxford Companion to Philosophy. This weighty book has an entry on ‘common sense’ written (as it happens) by an Australian philosopher—Tony Coady. It runs for the better part of two columns (one page) so I won’t try to summarise the whole thing. Instead, I’ll give you my response to what he has written. It seems to me that common sense consists of the combination of three things: ‘looking / thinking / sharing.’ By ‘looking’ I mean paying attention to the world around us. By ‘thinking’ I mean doing a bit of reasoning in your brain about the stuff you observe about the world around us. By ‘sharing’ I mean that this gives us stuff that we hold in common (hence, the ’common’ in ‘common sense’). We may not share this out loud. Sometimes our utterances will be little more than a nod of agreement (‘Spot on mate’, ‘Too right!’) But when we apply our common sense to a particular topic, how this works becomes clear. So—as an example—should biological males compete in women’s sport? Common sense gives the answer: ‘Of course not!’ To our ‘looking / thinking / sharing’ it is just obvious. On average blokes are bigger, stronger and faster than women, so men competing in women’s sports is just plain cheating. The problem with our society is just how uncommon ‘common sense’ is. Why do many sporting bodies allow men to compete against women? Because they have stopped ‘looking / thinking / sharing’ and feel committed (perhaps for reasons of social pressure) to a type of pretending. (‘Pretending’ is the opposite of ‘common sense’.) They have deliberately turned off from paying close attention to the world around them, or reasoning logically step-by-step, or pooling such observations and reasoning with the community. They have turned off their ‘common sense.’

Decimate I am (perhaps unwisely) going to buy into the debate about ‘decimate’. We all know how ‘decimate’ is used in popular language—especially by journalists. It’s used to mean the destruction of most a place or population. If a flood roars through a cattle station in north Queensland destroying much of the herd of beef cattle, the journalists will say the herd has been ‘decimated.’ But that is not the original meaning of the word. As I have often explained on both radio and television ‘decimate’ originally meant to reduce BY ten percent, not TO ten percent. So, if 90 per cent of that herd of cattle was wiped out it was not ‘decimated.’ That word does not convey the correct meaning. So, why do the pedants argue this? Because of the origin of the word in Latin. It originally named a disciplinary action in the ancient Roman army. Here’s how the Merriam-Webster explains it: ‘The first sense of “decimate” was born from the Roman practice of disciplining refractory military units by selecting one tenth of the men by lot and executing them. A bit harsh, from a modern standpoint, but presumably the Romans thought it effective.’ In other words, if a squadron has behaved badly they would be lined up and the commanding officer would walk along the line and run his sword through every tenth man. That’s where the ‘deci-’ part of the word comes from (you can see the same component in our word ‘decimal’—counting by tens). But I think we have to understand that the origin of the word does not determine its meaning. Which is why the pedants, in this case, are wrong. Words change over the years, and the meaning of a word is ‘its used in the language’ (Wittgenstein). ‘Decimate’ is now used to mean ‘to reduce drastically especially in number’ (Merriam-Webster). So the notion of a tenth no longer comes into it. The Oxford records that more general meaning from 1660. And the Oxford adds this explanatory comment: ‘This use has sometimes been criticized on etymological grounds, but is now the most usual sense in standard English.’ As an example the Oxford points to a 1957 textbook of correct English as insisting that the ten percent meaning of ‘decimate’ still applies. To the pendants I say: this is not a hill worth dying on. The meaning has changed. It changed a long time ago. ‘Decimate’ now means large scale destruction, and ten percent no longer comes into it. Let’s move on, and fight other, more important, battles for the English language.

Cooker In a recent column in the Sunday Telegraph David Penberthy talked about the slang expression ‘cooker.’ This, he said, has become a pejorative term among the politically obsessed. I asked Joe Hilderbrand if he had come across it (as he is a typical example of the politically obsessed) and he said yes, he’d known this expression for some years. ‘Cooker’ is a derogatory term for a conspiracy theorist. It rose to particular prominence during Covid, as a label for those who said the whole pandemic was a vast conspiracy. You can see at once where the idea sprang from—the notion that a conspiracy theory is something that someone, somewhere, has ‘cooked up.’ Hence they, and anyone who believes what they say, is a ‘cooker.’ But trying to confirm this from the dictionaries proves to be a little difficult. Unsurprisingly, the earliest use of ‘cooker’ (from 1770) was for someone who cooks (a person we would now simply call a ‘cook’). But the most common meaning for ‘cooker’ was for an appliance used for cooking food (from about 1860 onwards)—and that is still the most common use of ‘cooker’ today. I checked the Oxford, the Merriam-Webster, the Collins, and the Cambridge and they all stopped at this point. None had the conspiracy theorist meaning of ‘cooker.’ Ah, I thought, I’ll check out the hyper-hip online Urban Dictionary. But, once again, I was disappointed. The Urban Dictionary told me that ‘cooker’ was often used to mean ‘bottle caps, spoons and other containers used to dissolve drugs.’ And it went on to say that ‘cooker’ could also mean ‘the interior of a hot car on a summer’s day’ (we all know how dangerous that can be!) But none of them pointed the finger at a conspiracy theorist and gave such a person the label of ‘cooker’. So I accept the testimony of David Penberthy (and Joe Hilderbrand) that this usage exists, but the dictionaries appear not to have heard of it. And what about conspiracy theories? Are they just ‘cooked up’ or can they be true? Well, the great Sir Karl Popper (in his book The Open Society and its Enemies) argued that conspiracy theories are unlikely to be true because groups of human beings (especially large groups) are constitutionally incapable of keeping secrets. Sooner or later, he said, someone would blab. So (perhaps) it is safe for us to ignore most conspiracy theories most of the time? 

Mooreffoc Yes, Weird Word time once again. And to understand this one you need to know a bit about ‘Chestertonian fantasy’. That’s the sort of fantasy writing engaged in by the great G. K. Chesterton (1874-1936). What delighted Chesterton was seeing the familiar in unfamiliar ways. He once claimed he had an idea for a story in which a traveller would set out on a sailing ship, be tossed around on a severe storm, and arrive back at his homeland thinking he had landed at some distance, foreign, exotic island. With those thoughts in mind he would see everything that was familiar, that he had known for years, with different eyes—looking strange and startling. He actually tried this experiment of making familiar things look unfamiliar in his novel Manalivein which the hero breaks into his own house and seduces his own wife in order to re-discover the delight of finding things just as they were the first time he knew them. And ‘Mooreffoc’ is the word that names this experience. As Michael Quinion explains: ‘This word is rare and is almost never used in its ostensible sense — relating to things suddenly seen in a new and different way — but only as a keyword to initiate discussion. But it has been keeping illustrious company, since its few appearances in print have been in works by G K Chesterton, J R R Tolkien and Charles Dickens.’ In fact, it was the great Charles Dickens who invented the word (that Chesterton then claimed). It came from an experience he had when he was young and poor. In those days he could only look longingly through the plate glass window that had the word ‘Coffeeroom’ printed across it in large letters. As a successful author he could be inside, drinking coffee with his friends, and seeing the same word from the inside of the plate glass window—where it would appear to be this strange word: ‘Mooreffoc.’ Chesterton, in his biography of Dickens, said that this Weird Word represented the strangeness of things that have become trite when they are suddenly seen from a new angle. J. R. R, Tolkien, in his essay ‘On Fairy-stories’ said: ‘The word Mooreeffoc may cause you to realise that England is an utterly alien land, lost either in some remote past age glimpsed by history, or in some strange dim future reached only by a time-machine; to see the amazing oddity and interest of its inhabitants and their customs and feeding-habits.’ So, try doing a little ‘Mooreffoc’ this week, by looking at something familiar in a fresh, different, and creative way!

Moonlighting In a recent column in The Daily Telegraph Professor Gary Martin wrote about the practice he called: ‘Moonlighting—holding a second job outside one’s primary employment. ‘He said that this practice of ‘moonlighting’ is ‘shining brighter than ever.’ But hang on. Why is it called ‘moonlighting’? When I dig through the history of the word it turns out to contain a number of twists and turns. For instance, here in Australia (from around 1880) ‘moonlighting’ meant mustering wild cattle at night. At about the same time, in Irish history, ‘moonlighting’ meant ‘the performance of an illicit action by night’ (Oxford). While the meaning we’re looking at (‘the practice of doing paid work in addition to one’s regular employment’) appears to be an American coinage. So far it has been traced back to 1954—when the word ‘moonlighting’ was used (probably for the first time) with this meaning in a Pennsylvania newspaper. And why was this practice given the name of the large lump of rock that circles our planet (mostly, but not exclusively, at night)? Because this sort of word is for a second job that is usually done at night. It’s as simple as that really. Nothing really mysterious. So, what about the full-time night watchman who takes a second job during his daylight hours? Would he be accused of ‘daylighting’? Well, if we were being consistent, yes. But the English language is never that consistent, and ‘moonlighting’ is now the standard idiom for that second job, no matter when you do it. And given that source, the word has sprung up in a number of places. For instance, there was the American TV show Moonlighting (1985-1989) that starred Cybill Shepherd and Bruce Willis, in which they played private detectives. Then there was the song ‘Moonlighting’ by Leo Sayer which was a Top Ten hit in 1975. Verbally ‘moonlighting’ also exists as an action word, as a verb, with several meanings. It can mean ‘to depart hurriedly by night; to do a moonlight flit’ (leaving, one assumes, a lot of unpaid bills behind). And historically ‘moonlighting’ can be applied to anything that takes place by moonlight. Oddly enough, we don’t have an equivalent expression for ‘sunlighting’ (a word my spell checker won’t accept). And this all matters because in the present state of the Australian economy more Aussies at ‘moonlighting’ in two jobs than ever before. That’s the struggle to make ends meet. 

Cartoon If you think the word ‘cartoon’ means the daily political cartoon in the newspaper, or the latest episode of Bluey on television, you may be surprised to learn that ‘cartoon’ has a long and distinguished history. Great artists such as Leonardo da Vinci drew ‘cartoons’—meaning, not funny little pictures meant to amused, but full-sized sketches that would become masterpieces once they were rendered in paint. Because ‘cartoon’ came into English from French (with an Italian word behind the French source word). The origin of our word ‘cartoon’ is carta meaning paper. When ‘cartoon’ is first recorded (around 1684) it meant: ‘A drawing on stout paper, made as a design for a painting of the same size to be executed in fresco or oil, or for a work in tapestry, mosaic, stained glass, or the like’ (Oxford). But it took on a brand-new life—a sort of second life—in the 1800s thanks to the English satirical magazine Punch (which launched in 1841). Just a few years later (in June of 1843) Punch published this announcement: ‘Punch has the benevolence to announce, that in an early number of the ensuing Volume he will astonish… by the publication of several exquisite designs, to be called Punch’s Cartoons.’ So, there you have it—our modern sense of ‘cartoon’ invented out of thin air by a magazine. The early Punch Cartoons were full page satirical political drawings. But rapidly over the next few years they became smaller, funny drawings dealing with almost any subject. Then in the 1860s the first comic strips appeared (although the expression ‘comic strip’ was not coined until 1913). Then ‘cartoon’ started to become part of other, compound, expressions—such as ‘cartoon character.’ And then, of course, the animated cartoon was invented, showing cartoon drawings that sprang to life on the silver screen. Hence, ‘Felix the Cat’ was first a cartoon strip series in newspapers, and then an animated cartoon series at the movies. In 1937 Walt Disney gave the world the first feature-length animated cartoon with their original (and brilliant) version of Snow White. So, it has been a long journey—from the early drafts on thick paper done by serious (and great) artists to the short Bluey cartoons that we (and our kids and grandkids) enjoy on television today.

Caption This word ‘caption’ is closely related to another familiar old English word ‘capture.’ It seems that ‘caption’ came into English (around 1384) from a Latin source word capĕre meaning ‘to take. ‘Capture’ arrived much later (around 1796) travelling through French, but with the same Latin verb somewhere in the background. When ‘caption’ was first used it meant a bunch of words that would ‘capture the sense’ of a document. Its earliest use seems to have been in legal contexts. In the very early years being ‘captioned’ could mean ‘arrest or apprehension by judicial process.’ Especially, says the Oxford, in Scottish law. But then it started to be used of legal documents. Attached to a legal document, especially right at the top, might be a ‘caption’ that somehow ‘captured’ what the whole document was about, and what legal effect it might have. Basically this ‘caption’ at the head of the document said who could take action and when and where they might be found (or permitted) doing so. From this fairly modest beginning ‘caption’ took wings—and any short sentence or paragraph that ‘captured’ (summed up) the whole thing was called a ‘caption.’ So a ‘caption’ could be: ‘the heading of a chapter, section, or newspaper article’ says the Oxford—adding that this use was most common in the United States. Then the little bit of writing below a photograph in a newspaper or magazine that explained (or ‘captured’) the meaning of the picture or photo also came to be called a ‘caption.’ The first job in publishing the great Dorothy Parker had was writing ‘captions’ for Vogue magazine. Then along came silent movies, and (in the absence of dialogue) words appeared on the screen to explain what people were saying—and these too were called ‘captions.’ Nowadays on television we often have what are called ‘closed captions.’ They are ‘closed’ because you have to click a button to open them up. And when you do that, these ‘captions’ translate the dialogue on foreign films into English for those of us whose Norwegian or Danish is getting a little rusty. So, that is the long journey of the little word ‘caption’—from the Latin notion of ‘taking’ or ‘capturing’ to allowing us to follow the dialogue on the latest Scandinavian crime noir story.

Who / Whom A reader, Keiran, wrote to me recently with this plea: ‘I would be thrilled if you could help me to finally make sense of when to use “who” and “whom”.’ In response I promised to write a whole column on the subject—and this is it. Let me start with a spoiler alert—at this end of this column I will tell you to forget about the ‘who/whom’ distinction because it no longer matters. Ah, horror! I’m sure the purists and the pedants will be shocked by my conclusion, but hang on—take a look at the argument for discarding this ancient distinction. Unlike Latin (a dead language) English is a living language. And like the old oak tree, the moto of English is “While I live I grow.” Another way to make the same point is that English is a river not a lake. It is fluid and changing. And my judgement is that one of those changes is the loss of the old distinction between ‘who’ and ‘whom.’ To start with, those two forms (‘who’ and ‘whom’) are remnants of a once much more extensive case system in English. There were once ways of telling the case of a word by looking at the structure of the word. You could tell a word in the subjective case from the same word in the objective case by the way the word was inflected. And in that system ‘who’ is in the subjective case and ‘whom’ is in the objective case. So, under the old case rules if you were talking (or writing) about the subject of a verb you would use ‘who’ but if you meant the object of a verb you would use ‘whom.’ But (and I think it’s a big ‘but’) that old case system has slowly faded away over the centuries as English has become a much less inflected language. The ‘who/whom’ distinction is one of the few remaining echoes of that old system. And even this last little echo is now fading. The experts tell me that the overall use of ‘whom’ has been declining for a long time. It’s now quite rare in speech, although it survives (a little) in written English. In both Australian and American English it is almost gone completely, but it still hangs around as a faint echo in British English. There was a time back in the 1800s when ‘whom’ was just beginning to decline when some pedants actually re-wrote passages in Shakespeare to change a ‘who’ in the objective case into a ‘whom.’ Obviously a very silly thing to do. It’s time to abandon ‘whom’ as a word that has had its day. Let’s pat it on the back and thank it for its loyal service, then put it out to pasture and never us it again. So, as I said at the start—this distinction no long matters, Keiran. Just use ‘who’ in all sentences in all circumstances and you will be just fine.

The Anti-Social Century A period of time can (occasionally) be given a name, or a label. Such a label might cover a long period of time (e.g. the Bronze Age) or a shorter period (the ‘Me’ decade in the 1980s) or a very short period (e.g. Black Friday covering bushfires in Victoria). Well we are only a quarter of the way through the 21stcentury, and already someone has decided to give a name, or label, to this whole century, as—the Anti-Social Century. The term was coined by Derek Thompson in a cover story for the Atlantic magazine. His conclusion was that: ‘Self-imposed solitude might just be the most important social fact of the 21st century.’ In the article he talks about visiting a formerly buzzing restaurant and finding it almost empty. It was still highly profitable, but customers were now ordering home delivered meals rather than bothering to go out for the night. Of course the Covid period started a lot of this, but Covid has ended while self-chosen social isolation (it seems) has not. And there are other bits of evidence as well. It appears the membership of voluntary organisations is collapsing in most western countries. People are now much less likely to join Lions or Rotary. It’s part of the reason for the decline in church membership. It’s why membership of the major political parties has collapsed. People will vote, but not join it seems. Part of the reason seems to be the rise of today’s technology. People, it seems, live their lives glued to their devices—smart phones, tablets, laptops—rather than mixing and talking to real people face to face. Writing in The Oldie magazine Richard Godwin says that according to a recent survey a third of British adults eat alone ‘most or all of the time.’ The trend was predicted by sociologist Robert D Putnam way back in the year 2000 in his book Bowling Alone. And Gen Z might be the loneliest of all. They are complaining about epidemic of ‘flakiness’—people cancelling plans because they ‘just don’t feel like it.’ This is being done by guests invited to weddings, hen parties and birthday parties. For Baby Boomers (my generation) this all seems very strange—since we grew up meeting people face to face. And enjoying it! Not anymore, it seems. Welcome to the ‘Anti-Social Century.’

Botany Bay The great Anu Garg, from ‘A Word A Day’ recently had a week of expressions based on place names. And there among a number of such expressions (a ‘New York minute’ and others) he included the expression ‘Botany Bay.’ It had never occurred to me that this historically significant Australian placename had become a wider expression, but Anu Garg says it has. As an example he quotes a sentence from Jim Dooley in a book entitled For Whom Amnesty Tolls (2007). In that book he writes: ‘Corrupt companies, incompetent governmental agencies, and gutless politicians are the real culprits. There must be a Botany Bay where these characters can be exiled.’ Clearly our placename ‘Botany Bay’ is being used as a generic name for some sort of legal banishment (exile) for criminals. And, of course, that is how the placename itself began. On 28 April 1770 the great navigator Captain James Cook sailed into what is now Botany Bay—just down the coast from Sydney Harbour. His crew caught two stingrays weighing near 600 pounds—so he planned (briefly) to call the place ‘Stingray Bay’ or ‘Stingray Harbour.’ But then Joseph Banks came back from a shore expedition with a boat loaded down with botanical specimens so Cook called the place ‘Botany Bay.’ And that became the official name of the British convict colony established in 1788. The convicts and their guards actually settled at Port Jackson (Sydney Harbour) but ‘Botany Bay’ remained the legal name of the settlement and it was referred to as such in the British Houses of Parliament and in the newspapers of the time. So, ‘Botany Bay’ is clearly a good label for exiled, banished convicts—and, somewhat to my surprise—it turns out that it is still used in that way. Although, I must confess that I suspect this is a rare usage, employed only by those with sufficient historical knowledge to have heard of Botany Bay. Still, even if only for that few, it is still our name, and it is being more widely used. Which is excellent.

Conclave A new pope is about to be elected by a gathering of cardinals called into a ‘conclave.’ Which means that now is a good time to look at this word ‘conclave.’ The big American Dictionary the Merriam-Webster says that the relevant sense of conclave is ‘a meeting of Roman Catholic cardinals secluded continuously while choosing a pope.’ Conclave comes from a Latin word meaning ‘room that can be locked up’ (from the Latin com-, “together,” and clavis, “key”). The English word conclave formerly had the same meaning, but that use is now obsolete. The big Oxford English Dictionary agrees, saying that the word once used in English to mean ‘any private or close assembly, especially of an ecclesiastical character.’ But these days, as those American dictionary folk say, the word is used exclusively for the meeting that elects a pope. The room in which they are all locked up together is, as you know, the Sistine chapel. And, apparently, it really is locked during these deliberations. The ‘conclave’ will meet between 15 and 20 days after the death of the pope. It is supposed to consist of all cardinals under the age of 80 (although some newspaper reports in Italy have claimed that the college of cardinals is now so big and unwieldy there are suggestions that some of the younger cardinals should be excluded). How this assembly proceeds to choose the next pope is a process that dates back hundreds of years — an intricate, choreographed procession of rituals and ballots. Once the cardinals have all filed into the chapel, its great bronze doors are dramatically closed and sealed, and the first day's voting begins. For centuries, the cardinal electors were physically locked inside the Sistine Chapel until they elected a new pontiff, left to eat and sleep beneath Michelangelo's vivid Renaissance masterpiece. These days, they do leave to rest and share meals at Santa Marta House — a hotel-like residence inside Vatican City where Francis had his own personal apartment during his pontificate — for however many days it takes them to come to a decision. So these days they are ‘conclaved’ (physically locked up together) only during the voting hours.

Flow The old word ‘flow’ has been given a brand-new meaning. The source word is very old—coming from the days when Old English was a Germanic language. So, from more than a thousand years ago. The official meaning of ‘flow’ is: ‘to move along in a current’ (Oxford). Not that we need to be told—we call know this word. But now we are told that ‘flow’ means a mental state—a state of mind. A recent study out of Drexel University's Creative Research Lab in Philadelphia, led by Dr. John Kounios, sought to examine the 'neural and psychological correlates of flow' in a sample of jazz guitarists. In other words, while these musicians were played their brain were wired up to measure which part of the brain were doing what sorts of things. And, we are told, that what was happening in their brains when they were being creative was ‘flow.’ (Well, if they were going to do this study, they had to call it something, right? But why this picked on the word ‘flow’ is still not clear to me.) Mihalyi Csikszentmihalyi (no, don’t ask me for a pronunciation guide!) was the psychologist who first identified flow: ‘a state in which people are so involved in an activity that nothing else seems to matter; the experience is so enjoyable that people will continue to do it even at great cost, for the sheer sake of doing it.’ According to one online report: ‘For people working in highly competitive fields where optimised performance is vital, like music performance, being able to tap into tools like flow can make a huge difference for success.’ Then one of the researchers goes on to say that ‘flow is about letting go.’ (Maybe that’s where they got the word from? From the old expression of ‘go with the flow’—which, let’s face it, just means stop resisting and let yourself be carried along by whatever is happening. Mind you, if that means being ‘carried along’ by a chanting crowd of angry protestors, perhaps it’s not such a good thing?) The great jazzman Charlie Parker once said: ‘You’ve got to learn your instrument. Then, you practise, practise, practise. And then, when you finally get up there on the bandstand, forget all that and just wail.’ So, perhaps that’s what this new meaning of ‘flow’ is—just wail? Which brings us to the question: does this so-called new meaning of ‘flow’ make any sense? No. Outside the world of psycho-babble it means nothing!

Anzac Did you realise that the word Anzac is copyright? Originally, of course, it simply meant the “Australian and New Zealand Army Corps”. But so deeply has this word entered into the consciousness of our nation that there are laws, passed way back in 1920, that control and protect its use. The Minister for Veterans’ Affairs administers the protection of the word Anzac, and the minister’s approval is needed for the use of the word in connection with any “trade, business, calling or profession, any entertainment, lottery or art union, any building, private residence, boat or vehicle, or any charitable or other institution”. Even Anzac biscuits are protected by law. Well, not so much the biscuits as the name of the biscuits. And, by the way, Anzac is no longer an acronym – it is now officially a word: that means the “A” is upper case and the rest of the letters should be lower case. And as a word it has contributed to other parts of the language. For instance, we can refer to Aussie soldiers as ‘Anzacs.’ The earliest use of this was confined to those young men of unimaginable courage who charged up the beaches of ‘Anzac Cove’ (another compound noun that uses ‘Anzac’ as an adjective)—but now the word ‘Anzacs; if often used of Aussies soldiers who fought in any conflict. We can also talk about the ‘Anzac Spirit’ and the ‘Anzac tradition.’ In 1915 there was the expression ‘Anzac zone’—meaning that portion of the beaches of Anzac Cove where the Australians and New Zealanders dug in and fought. And there are other uses too—not the least of which is ‘Anzac biscuit.’ This is a biscuit made out of oatmeal, golden syrup and coconut; one of Australia’s national foods. During World War I the wives, girlfriends and mums of the Australian soldiers used to make these biscuits to ship over to their blokes. They were originally called Soldiers’ Biscuits, but after the landing on Gallipoli, they were given their present name. In the recipe for Anzac biscuits from the Australian War Memorial there are no eggs. Why? Because apparently in the war, most poultry farmers had joined up, so eggs were scarce. Golden syrup took the place of eggs as the binding agent in Anzac biscuits. 

Dark Woke We’ve been hearing the word ‘Woke’ tossed around for some years now. It is the name now given to what was once called ‘political correctness’—that is, holding and expressing what the self-appointed elite regarded as the ‘right’ political opinions. Under the label ‘Woke’ this attitude became even more demanding—and assumed moral superiority over everyone who disagreed with them. All of that we have known for some time. Now the New York Times has coined this new expression ‘dark Woke.’ They are using to label where America’s Democrat Party now stands. Which is in a not-very-good place. The Democrats have the lowest approval rating they have ever had in their history. For four years they foisted Joe Biden on America—as a puppet president who was clearly suffering from senile dementia. (We still don’t know who was really running the country during the ‘Biden’ years!) So, how do the Democrats (who’ve lost all credibility) dig themselves out of this mess. Well, according to the New York Times their strategy is mow this thing called ‘dark Woke.’ Here’s what the paper says:

“Dark woke,” for now, is a meme that lives mostly online. But its roots have been sown throughout the party for years. In the waning days of the Biden administration, memes about “Dark Brandon” often referred to the version of the former president that conservatives most feared. Outside the party, the “dirtbag left” the term for a cohort of leftists provocateurs who eschew civility politics, inspired headlines for their unrestrained derision of conservatives and liberals alike.

From what I can understand about this stuff, ‘dark Woke’ means being extremely left-wing ‘Woke’ and at the same time being extremely rude and uncivilised. Michelle Obama once famously said “When they go low, we go high.” Instead, says the New York Times, some Democrats want to see how low they can go, too. Not all Democrats are impressed, with one Democrat Congressman has said the Democrats’ new focus on viral ‘dark Woke’ posts is just a lot of hot air. It seems that being rude and aggressive may not work in politics—regardless of what you call it.

Self-help speak The language used by the self-help gurus has probably always been full of jargon and empty words—going all the way back to Dale Carnegie and his How to Win Friends and Influence People (1936). At least Carnegie was a professional teacher of public speaking, and applied his principles of communication to all our contacts and conversations. Mind you, he was not the first. As far back as 1859 Samuel Smiles wrote a book called Self-Help, after not very successful careers as a doctor and journalist. And even in that pioneering book the ‘self-help jargon’ was becoming apparent, when Smiles wrote: ‘Every human being has a great mission to perform, noble faculties to cultivate, a vast destiny to accomplish.’ But now Meghan Markle has taken the nonsense talk of the Self-Help movement to even greater heights of empty absurdity. She has launched a new podcast called Confessions of a Female Founder (no, that doesn’t she’s a fish, but that she starts things). In the first episode she (apparently) asks her listeners if their ‘bucket is feeling depleted?’ I say ‘apparently’ because I haven’t heard the podcast myself—I am relying on news reports. Meghan goes on talk about the need to ‘re-org yourself.’ (Which sounds rather like an uncomfortable yoga posture.) This ‘self-help’ talk involves such things as: ‘setting boundaries’, ‘prioritizing yourself’, and ‘practicing self-care.’ (The idea of focussing outwards on others around you appears not to occur to these modern self-help fanatics. At least Dale Carnegie made that ‘focus on others’ business the centre of his book. Well done him!) In the podcast Meghan tells her guest (a female entrepreneur) ‘how evolved you are.’ (As if the rest of us have to shave everyday to hide our closeness to gorillas!) Meghan also uses such expressions as ‘beautiful chaos’—whatever that is (the Trump White House?) If anything bad happens, she says, that is an opportunity for gratitude while some good is labelled ‘super high value.’ If you are busy you are ‘so in it’, and you should cut out anything that ‘doesn’t serve you.’ Meanwhile, the jam that Meghan is now selling is said to be ‘an extension of her essence.’ (Which sounds a bit like collected body odours!) Her guest is just as bad, describing being unemployed as being ‘professionally single.’ Is it just me? Or are these junk words expressing junk ideas?
 

Emu The emu is Australia’s large, flightless bird. It stands around one and half metres tall, weighs around 45 kilos and has brownish black, thick feathers. (Only Africa’s ostrich is a larger bird.) The name seems to come not from any Aboriginal language (as you might expect) but from a Portuguese word (apparently from ema – originally denoting a type of crane, but later applied to ostriches, and ostrich type birds). Emu eggs (as you might expect) are very large, and, in the colonial era, were often collected and decorated. The emu has been known to hit almost 50 kilometres an hour when running at full tilt. To the early settlers the ‘emu’ was also known as the ‘bush chook’ (not that I imagine they’d be very good eating—surely far too tough?) So why do I raise the subject of the ‘emu’? Because this large, flightless bird has made some valuable contributions to the Australian language. It can, for instance, be used in the well-known Aussie curse: ‘I hope your chooks turn into emus and kick your dunny down!’ But there’s lots of others. It turns up in expressions such as “emu bob”, “emu walk”, and “emu stalk” all with much the same meaning. They all refer to picking up litter from an area, usually by an organised group of people, often on school grounds as a school punishment. The same activity occurs in the army (where it’s usually called an “emu parade” or “patrol”). “Emu bobs” are now sometimes organised by community groups as part of Clean Up Australia Day. And emu’s eggs have long been used in Aussie English as an expression of size, as in “that cricket ball gave me a lump as big as an emu’s egg, mate.” In South Australia they have things called ‘emu crossings’—road crossings near a school designed for the safe passage of schoolchildren, marked by red and white striped posts. Then there is a product called ‘emu oil’, which is oil rendered from the carcass of an emu for therapeutic use. It is said to be a moisturizer, an inset repellent, and it relieves minor aches and pains. Then there used to be the strange craft of ‘emu egg carving’—in which empty emu eggs had delicate patterns carved into them. You can find colonial examples of this art in some local museums. Does anyone still do this? That’s a lot of words and expressions spun off from one small, three-letter, word—and it’s not even an Australian word! But it is recorded as the name for our very own Big Bird from 1789 (from Captain Watkin Tench, who recorded so much about life in the early colony).