Kel's previous Ozwords of the day...

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No king A reader (Gordon) writes to ask why the current protests on the streets of American cities are using ‘no king’ as their slogan. I suppose the answer is that America is a republic that was born out of rebellion against a king (England’s King George III) and these protestors are claiming that their current president (Donald Trump) is no longer behaving like an elected president, but like a king. The word ‘king’ has been part of the English language for as long as there has been an English language. It goes back to the days of Old English, more than a thousand years ago. It is a common Germanic word (with similar or related words in many other Germanic languages—Old Dutch, Old High German, Old Icelandic and many others).  The original meaning of the Germanic word is frequently assumed to be ‘descendant of a (royal) family’. Such an emphasis on genealogical descent would fit in with the practice of royal succession in Anglo-Saxon England, where royal families were traditionally reputed to descend from Germanic gods, and successors to kings were chosen from close family members. However, while there is evidence for such a concept of kingship in other older Germanic contexts, an alternative form of early Germanic kingship based on military leadership and acclamation was also around. Thus, it is alternatively possible that the word originally had a somewhat wider sense, such as ‘leader of a kinship group’. When America was born, in the Independence War of 1776 the only model the founders had for their new constitution was the English one—which meant: a constitutional (but still powerful) king, with balancing powers in parliament and the courts. And that model is reflected in the American constitution they drafted—which has a president who is separate from the parliament (the Congress) and the courts, and is limited by the powers of those institutions, but who (unlike Westminster democracies) is a centre of power in himself. When I was doing Political Science at university were told that the American president amounted to being ‘an elected king’ (both head of government and head of state—roles that are separated under the Westminster system). So, Trump (like every other president) is an ‘elected king.’ And he will cease to be king when his term in office expires. Which makes the protestors’ slogan of ‘no king’ look a bit silly.  

Hygge This is a word that has now largely gone out of fashion, but was just a few years ago one of the cool words among a certain social group—‘hygge’, pronounced ‘hugg-ah’ I think, but I’m happy to be corrected by any Danish speaking readers. (That’s because this is Danish in origin, and it became hugely popular in Britain during the Covid lockdowns. But I suspect it never caught on in quite the same way here.) I offer that pronunciation guide with some hesitation, because sources tell me I should pronounce it as ‘h-you-gar’. Others seem to prefer ‘hoo-gar’. So, however we say it, what does it mean? Basically it means ‘comfort’—which is why it was such a popular concept during lockdown. Here is the official Oxford English Dictionary definition: ‘a quality of cosiness and comfortable conviviality that engenders a feeling of contentment or well-being; contentment from simple pleasures, such as warmth, food, friends, etc.’ I am drawing this word to your attention now because it seems to me to be a good quality to pursue during winter. Meik Wiking, the author of The Little Book of Hygge: Danish Secrets to Happy Living, and CEO of the Happiness Research Institute in Copenhagen, says that hygge has been called everything from ‘the art of creating intimacy,’ to ‘coziness of the soul,’ and even, ‘cocoa by candlelight.’ In his book, Wiking explains that you know ‘hygge’ when you feel it, but that some of the key ingredients are togetherness, relaxation, indulgence, presence, and comfort. ‘The true essence of hygge is the pursuit of everyday happiness and it’s basically like a hug, just without the physical touch,’ he says. There’s a sense in which this idea of hygge works in family situation when we do the best we can to be relaxed and kind and thoughtful, but at the same time don’t try too hard to make everything work perfectly. Accepting imperfection and just getting on with people and getting on with life is probably part of what makes ‘hygge’ work. So, what do you think of this Danish word? Too self-indulgent? Or important in this crazy world we live in?

Part and parcel 2GB’s John Stanley asked me for the origin of the expression ‘part and parcel.’ The answer is that this is an odd sort of tautology, not uncommon in English—a double expression where both words mean much the same thing. ‘Parcel’ means the sort of thing the post office delivers (called a ‘package’ in the US)—and it just means a quantity of something. So you could have a ‘parcel’ of land, for example. ‘Part’ serves a very similar purpose, it helps us to talk about a quantity of something—e.g. the quantity of something that we have is not the whole of the toilet roll, it’s just what’s left, a ‘part’ of the toilet roll. The Oxford defines ‘part and parcel’ as meaning: ‘An integral part of a larger whole’—and with this meaning it’s been around since 1463. So there’s nothing new about this. Michael Quinion, on his Worldwide Words website explains the expression like this: ‘part and parcel is a tautology, since both words in effect mean the same thing. English loves this kind of doublet: nooks and crannies, hale and hearty, safe and sound, rack and ruin, dribs and drabs. Many derive from the ancient legal practice of including words of closely similar meaning to make sure that the sense covers all eventualities: aid and abet, fit and proper, all and sundry. Part and parcel is a member of this second group — it appeared in legal records during the sixteenth century. We use it to emphasise that the thing being spoken about is an essential and integral feature or element of a whole.’ To which I would add that the reason it has survived for so long is because the English language seems to like these groups of words that have either alliteration (starting with the same letter) or rhyme. The sounds and the rhythms must just appeal to the ears of English speakers, because so many phrases built on that sort of construction have survived as part of our language for so long. So, there you are John, and old expression, and a good one.

Like The Economist ran an article about the overuse of the irritating word ‘like’, except that—strangely—the magazine didn’t seem all that irritated. The article made the point that ‘like’ is used by the younger generation as what is called a ‘discourse particle.’ That means it just a small bit of language used to hold a sentence together. Which is fair enough. But it is the way it’s used that can become annoying. The so-called ‘Valley Girls’ from the San Fernando Valley in California are supposed to have started the craze by saying such things as ‘It’s like five miles away…’ or ‘He’s like a consultant…’ These are vague and pointless uses of the discourse particle. Sometimes ‘like’ is used to introduce a quote. That gives us such deathless prose as ‘She was like “You can’t do” that, and I’m like “Yes, I can.’” This is not normal English construction. (That use of ‘like’ was popularised in Australia by the character of Kylie Mole played by Mary-Anne Fahey on the Comedy Company show.) This use of ‘like’ is sometimes thought to go back to the Beatnik era of the late 1950s and early 60s—the days when Maynard G. Krebbs, played by Bob Denver on The Doby Gillies Show, was saying things along the line of ‘Like, wow, man.’ We all of us use some discourse particles from time to time such as ‘so’, ‘but’, ‘then’ and others. The problem with like is that it appears to be like the only discourse particle this younger generation knows and so it is like used over and over and over again. I suspect they’ll grow out of it as they grow older. But wait, there’s more. There is a second abuse of ‘like’ that is common among journalist. This word ‘like’ means ‘resembles’ not ‘for example.’ But that’s how it’s used (misused!) by journalists. They write: ‘A major airline like Qantas needs…’ Literally that sentence means ‘A major airline that resembles Qantas needs…’ which not what they are trying to say. They think they are saying, ‘A major airline such as Qantas needs…’ You see the difference? That is an abuse of ‘like’ that should, like, stop right now!

Offence archaeology This is the practice of going through the social media history of a public figure to find offensive or embarrassing things they have said in the past. This expression 'offence archaeology' was drawn to my attention by 2GB’s Luke Grant. Many millions of social media users at one time or another have posted something that someone, somewhere will be offended by. And, since the Internet is forever, you can bet an offense archaeologist is digging into it, particularly if you are a public figure. According to the Urban Dictionary this involves: ‘Examining the digital past of a contemporary public figure in order to unearth any statements that might be offensive to the ruling class. These offenses are best presented devoid of context or intent, which maximizes the potential for self-righteous virtue signalling among the people who are pretending to be outraged.’ But offense archaeology isn’t reserved solely for celebrities. Anyone who has ever posted on social media is a potential target. The late Sir Roger Scruton was a distinguished English philosopher who specialized in traditionalist conservative views. He became a victim of offense archaeology after he was appointed to advise the Ministry of Housing, Communities and Local Government as the unpaid chairman of a new public body to champion beautiful buildings. The offense archaeologists—who are notably left-wing—began digging.  Politically incorrect phrases were unearthed, torn from their original context, and passed around like a shame file. Sir Roger was also one of the most brilliant, articulate, and wide-ranging intellectual figures in the English-speaking world—a man of intelligence, sensitivity, and political courage. In the 1980s, he worked tirelessly and at great personal peril behind the Iron Curtain to help those fighting against the totalitarian jackboot of Communist tyranny.  Which made his attackers appear ridiculous to everyone but themselves, but not, alas, any less virulent. But where so many other victims of offense archaeology eventually apologize for past statements, Scruton did not, but he did resign from the body to which he was appointed. Offence archelogy wins again. That is the ugliness of the world we live in.

Slush fund When we look at an expression such as ‘slush fund’ we immediately start to think about politicians (why would that be, I wonder?) The great American dictionary the Merriam-Webster explains, by saying that a ‘slush fund’ is ‘a fund for bribing public officials or carrying on corruptive propaganda on behalf of special interests.’ But it began life with a totally different meaning. From early in the 1800s the notion of the ‘slush fund’ was born on sailing ships travelling over oceans. In the Royal Navy the food for those on the lower deck was pretty dreadful. In the days before refrigeration the only meat was salted pork or beef, stored in heavily salted casks for long voyages. When some of this tough old meat was taken by the ship’s cook and turned into a meal, he would boil it (at some length) in a large tub or pot in his galley. The first result was a thick layer of fat that was released and floated to the top of the pot. This semi-liquid fat was scooped off and put into a tub where it solidified. The fat was called ‘slush’ and the tub where it was stored was called the ‘slush tub.’ When they reached port the contents of this ‘slush tub’ were sold off to ship’s chandlers to be made into tallow candles (this was, of course, the age of the candle—and there was, thus, an endless market for candles of all qualities). The money that was raised, at least in the early days, was put into a fund to pay for small luxuries for the crew. This was called the ‘slush fund.’ Over time the meaning of this expression broadened and changed. It came to refer to any ‘extra’ money that happened by be available. And by the 1870s in America it was being used in political circles as the label for any unofficial money being used to pay off officials as ‘illicit commission, bribery, corruption and graft.’ Hence, our use of ‘slush fund’ today. The odd thing about the expression is that it started off as being essentially a positive term for a positive idea. Then over time it was corrupted (just like the officials and organisations that corrupted today by ‘slush fund’ payments). Ah, well, such is the way of the world—from the good to the corrupt! (Or am I sounding cynical?)

Unrealized A reader (Joshua) writes to say he keeps hearing the expression ‘unrealized capital gains’ and asks me to explain it— ‘in plain words, please’ he writes. Step one is the ‘capital gains’ means that you buy an asset (let’s say, some property) and later sell it making a profit—that is capital gains, and you would normally pay capital gains tax on your profit. What is tricky is the notion of ‘unrealized’ capital gains. What Treasurer Jim Chalmers proposes is this. If you have a superannuation fund with a balance of more than three million dollars and in that super fund you own an asset (again, let’s say property) and you don’t sell it, so you don’t make any capital gain. This new tax law will allow the government to pretend that you have sold. And pretend that you have made money from the sale. And then tax you on the pretend money that you haven’t made. ‘Unrealized’ has been part of the English language since around 1767. It comes from the shorter word ‘unreal.’ The much older word ‘real’ goes back to the 14th century and means ‘having actual existence.’ Clearly it’s opposite, ‘unreal’, means having no actual existence. So ‘unrealized’ capital gains are capital gains that have no actual existence. This is money that does not actually exist. That is why (following Joshua’s demand that I use plain words) I am calling this ‘pretend’ money—meaning, capital gains, that do not actually exist, that are just ‘pretend.’ Under the new law proposed by Treasurer Jim Chalmers the Australian Tax Office will be able to make up a figure based on their own calculations (or imaginations) that you might have made if you had sold the asset. And then pretend that you have sold it, and made the amount of money they are pretending you made. And then charge you 30% tax on that pretend money. If you think this sounds immoral—you are quite correct! The real problem, of course, is that if the government gets aways with taxing this pretend money, it will then start to spread the idea all over the Tax Act until they are taxing ‘pretend’ money from everyone, every year. In this way there will be no limit to how much tax they can raise. That, of course, is the whole point of this exercise—to make taxing non-existent ‘pretend’ money part of how the Australian tax system works.

Talking heads Since the sort of television I do is called ‘taking heads’ television, I decided to take a look at this expression. The Cambridge Dictionary says ‘talking head’ is ‘someone who appears on a television news or discussion show.’ The reason for the expression is that us ‘taking heads’ are usually seated behind a desk on the set, and what you see on the screen is a head and shoulder shot. And the great American dictionary, the Merriam-Websterconcurs. A ‘talking head’ is either ‘the televised image of the head of a person who is talking’ or ‘a television personality who appears in such shots.’ So, is the expression a positive one? Or a negative one? Oxford Reference, an Oxford University Press website, suggests that “talking head” is “often used in a pejorative sense because the use of such commentators in a visual medium suggests an over-reliance on ‘telling’ rather than ‘showing.’” So that’s pretty negative. And the Grammarphobia website is also quite negative. They say that ‘talking heads may be viewed negatively as people reading scripts, often written by others, rather than expressing thoughts of their own—which, however, never happens on Sky News. Perhaps unsurprisingly, I think of ‘talking head’ television more positively; for two reasons. The first is that people are mistaken about powerful visuals. A friend once pointed out some research to me, which show that the powerful image on a screen is a human face. That’s because people are interested in people. And secondly, ‘talking heads television’ can also be thought of as ‘radio with pictures.’ I love listening to talk radio—and it is just a whole heap better when you can see the people speaking. So (perhaps) there is something to be said for ‘talking head’ television after all? Perhaps amusingly, there is an earlier meaning for ‘talking head’—from at least the 1800s ‘talking head’ meant ‘a robot’! This is recorded from an 1848 piece in The Examiner newspaper that uses ‘talking head’ to mean an ‘automaton resembling a human head, supposed to have been able to speak and answer questions put to it.’ The paper referred to a legendary medieval inventor, Roger Bacon, of whom it said: ‘Roger Bacon, having succeeded in making a talking head, was so wearied..with its perpetual tittle-tattle that he dashed it to pieces.’

The Overton window I have written before about the Overton window—but it seems very topical to me, so I would like to chat about again. It takes its name from Joseph Overton (1960-2003) an American political scientist who was senior vice president of the Mackinac Centre for Public Policy. The ‘Overton window’ means: ‘the spectrum of ideas on public policy and social issues considered acceptable or viable by the general public at a given time.’ In other words, when a political leader is putting forward ideas, he will only be taken seriously by the wider public if his ideas fit into what they think is the acceptable range of possibilities—and what the public will take seriously changes from time to time. At one time the public might think that a switch to nuclear energy is worth talking about; at another time most people might sneeze at the idea. American political commentator Joshua Trevino has postulated that the six degrees of acceptance of public ideas are roughly: (1) unthinkable, (2) radical, (3) acceptable, (4) sensible, (5) popular, and (6) policy. The way it works is this: (6) is when something is settled as part of the landscape; (1) and (2) are ideas that won’t win a debate; and (3) to (5) are the ‘Overton window.’ Here’s an example: cutting the current very high levels of immigration is clear right, smack, bang in the middle of the Overton window. So any party that rejects that idea is offside with the punters. On the other hand, discarding a goal of net zero is more iffy—so any party that adopted that would need to explain themselves and show the benefits. Mind you, once the public has seized onto the notion of dumping net zero, and party that wanted to keep going down that track would be nuts. So, to a large extend what is and what is outside the Overton window depends on the persuasive power of politicians. If a serious, committed politician believes in a policy, and works hard at selling it, he can move it inside the Overton window and make it a winner with the public. That’s what John Howard did with the GST. So, what’s in and what’s outside the Overton window at the moment? Here’s my guess—Chris Bowen’s renewables energy policy which is pushing up everyone’s power bill (and, hence, the price of everything) is on the nose and right outside the Overton window. The only people who love are those invested in the renewables industry (and making a motza out of it). No one else believes it, or wants. That’s what Peter Dutton was unable to explain in the last election. It’s a fascinating idea, isn’t it?

The Woke debate I have been having an email debate for some weeks now with a reader named Chris. He protested when I said that part of the meaning of the word ‘Woke’ is being a bully. He insisted that I show him where the Oxford or some other reputable authority says this. I pointed out to Chris that part of my role as a language journalist is to report on language changes long before the dictionaries catch up with them. And the key, I said, to doing this is to remember Ludwig Wittgenstein’s dictum that ‘the meaning of a word is its use in the language.’ So, to discover how subtle changes in meaning are occurring we closely watch how words are being used around us and in contemporary media (it’s something all we Wordies do—I’m sure you are as sensitive to language as I am—that’s why you send me such interesting emails!) Chris insists that ‘Woke’ only means ‘awake to social or political injustices’—which is certainly where the word started. What I think Chris has missed is that those people who are happy to think that they are ‘awake to social or political injustices’ are now completely intolerant of anyone who disagrees with them. This is the source of ‘cancel culture’—where the Woke refuse to listen anyone who disagrees with them, and do everything in their power to shut down the voices of disagreement so that no one else gets to hear from them either. One of the classic cases was with Bettina Arndt who lectured on domestic violence. And in her lectures she pointed out the men are not always the perpetrators and women are not always the victims (most of the time, but not always—it is important to remember the male victims of domestic assault). Well, the Woke feminists were horrified—they got her cancelled from university campus and disrupted any meeting she addressed. That is Woke bullying—shutting down anyone who disagrees with them. I fear that the ABC these days employs people who all think alike, and is reluctant to put to air voices of dissent. To anyone whose eyes are open, it is clear that Woke bullying is now widespread. In America, those Woke warriors who disagreed with (and disliked) Elon Musk started firebombing Teslas, and Tesla dealerships. So, Chris do you understand my point about the reputable role of wordsmithing involves keeping our eyes and ears and open and keeping ahead of the dictionaries? Well, perhaps, Chris does and perhaps he doesn’t. What about you? Do you think I’ve answered Chris’s objection?

Infobesity There was a time when there were daily newspapers, plus news bulletins on radio and television. They were the source of our information about what is happening in the world today. Not anymore. Now we have information coming out of our ears! You can’t turn on the search engine on your computer without having the news window open up and bombard you with information. Then there’s social media. Plus all those pop-up ads and banner ads. This is really the age of information overload. I keep reading in my daily paper (yes, I still read one) about so-called ‘celebrities’ I have never heard of before. That’s because I can no longer keep up with the bombardment of information about these supposed entertainers or (more strangely) ‘reality’ stars. What I am suffering from (what we are all suffering from) now has a name—it is called ‘infobesity.’ It is, clearly, a play on the much older word ‘obesity.’ That source word ‘obesity’ is recorded in English from 1611, with the familiar meaning: ‘The condition of being extremely fat or overweight; stoutness, corpulence’ (Oxford). It came into English from a (very similar) French word, behind which is a Latin source word obēsitās meaning fatness or stoutness. Now what is coming into us every day consists not just of calories (or kilojoules and they insist on calling them these days) but information as well—making our aching brains swell up and fatten from information overload—we suffer from ‘infobesity.’ The word is not yet found officially listed in any of the major dictionaries, although Collins Dictionary includes it among its ‘new word suggestions’ where it says that this word was submitted in 2017 and ‘is being monitored for evidence of usage.’ Wikipedia takes this seriously, saying ‘if input exceeds the processing capacity, information overload occurs, which is likely to reduce the quality of the decisions.’ The Wiki writers go on to say that psychologists have recognized for many years that humans have a limited capacity to store current information in memory. In other words, your brain is a black box with a limited capacity. When you walk into the kitchen and then think ‘Now what did I come here for?’ it’s because the black box has exceeded its storage capacity. I remember explaining this to Bob Rogers once, and he replied: ‘In other words, I forget things because I know so much?’ I assured him this was true, and he was quite happy about that notion. As we all should be. So, ‘infobesity’ doesn’t go to the waistline, instead it stretches the memory, until it snaps back like a rubber band!

Dingbat In Australian (and American and New Zealand) slang a ‘dingbat’ is someone who is wildly irrational or eccentric; one who is foolish or stupid.’ We have been using the word in this way since the late 1800s. According to the Oxford ‘dingbat’ has a longer history than that, and has had many meanings over the years. For instance, there’s a quote from 1843 that refers to ‘a fair game of ding bats.’ So, what was that like? Skittles? Possibly. The word suggests it involved knocking something down with something else. I won’t go through all the other possible meanings—there are too many of them, and they are so varied and inconsistent it’s hard to see how there can be any connection between them. As just one example, in the early 1800s in America a ‘dingbat’ was an alcoholic drink—and the Oxford suggests ‘a very strong one.’ Printers also use the word ‘dingbats’ for ornamental characters used in typesetting—something (says the Oxford) ‘other than a letter or numeral (such as an asterisk or symbol), used… to replace letters in a euphemistically presented vulgar word, or for ornamentation.’ The sense of a stupid or crazy person starts to appear in both Australia and America around the 1870s or 1880s, laying the foundation for Archie Bunker’s affectionate nickname for his wife Edith in the American TV show All In the Family. Where does it come from? Well, it incorporates two verbal components: ‘ding’ meaning a hit or punch and ‘bat’ meaning either the action of beating or striking or the object with which you do the beating or striking. So, perhaps using ‘dingbat’ to mean a halfwit comes from the notion that a person has had a few too many blows around the head and can no longer think straight. It minds of the joke by P. G. Wodehouse (which he repeated in many stories)—which someone is behaving in a foolish way one of the characters is sure to remark ‘Must have been dropped on his head as a baby.’ Well, I suggest that ‘dingbat is the same sort of jocular expression. Which doesn’t explain why printers’ symbols (*^#>! +#) are called dingbats. Is it because only someone who was completely dingbats could have designed them? I have no idea (well, we can’t explain everything).

Blind Freddy The Australian National Dictionary says that Blind Freddy is “a most unperceptive person”. Gerry Wilkes says that Blind Freddy is “an imaginary figure representing the highest degree of disability or incompetence, and so used as a standard of comparison” as in the expression of disgust “Blind Freddy could see it!” But perhaps Blind Freddy was not so imaginary after all. Most wise lexicographers these days trace the title back to Frederick Solomon. He was an assistant bookmaker and well-known local personality in Sydney in the early 1900s (he died in 1933). He had a reputation as a person able to make accurate predictions about sporting matters—so originally ‘Blind Freddy could see it’ was a about being accurate. But as the source was forgotten, it came to mean being very unobservant, and missing the obvious. That’s what the experts say, and I’m sure they’re right. But I have another theory— that the title Blind Freddy existed for some time before it was applied to Frederick Solomon in the early 1900s. My suggestion is that the original Blind Freddy was an English baronet by the name of Sir Frederick Pottinger. He was the young man put in charge of catching the “noblest bushranger of them all” Ben Hall. As a new chum who knew nothing of the bush Pottinger regularly failed in his attempts to trap Ben Hall and his gang – and Ben Hall’s organising ability and knowledge of the bush meant that he ran rings around the Englishman. The sheer incompetence and clumsiness of Sir Frederick, I suggest, made him the original Blind Freddy. I propose that the expression remained part of the oral culture over the succeeding decades (occasionally being applied to particular persons – including Frederick Solomon) until it started to appear in print around 1913. Is there any evidence to back up my nice little story? None at all I’m afraid. Which is a pity—because it’s such a nice story!

White ant Those nasty little insects, termites, have been called ‘white ants’ since the early 1600s. The expression is first recorded in Portuguese as formiga branca which was then translated (literally) into English as ‘white ant.’ Of course, termites are not ants at all (white or any other colour). They are more closely related to cockroaches than ants. But they resemble ants in living in large colonies comprising individuals of several different castes, with wingless and winged forms—hence the colloquial name for them. There are two figurative uses of ‘white ant’ and both of them—to my surprise and delight—were coined here in Australia. (More evidence of Aussie verbal inventiveness.) Both involve using ‘white an' as a verb. The first and most familiar says ‘to white ant’ some person or institution, means ‘undermining or subverting within’ (in much the same way the real white ants eat away at the wooden structure of a building). This usage is recorded from 1905. The second figurative use of ‘white ant’ is one I hadn’t come across before. It is means ‘the supposed destruction of the brain by white ants, implying loss of sanity, sense, and intelligence.’ That one is recorded from 1908. The earliest citation is from Australian author Henry Fletcher (1856-1932) in his book Dads and Dan: Between Smokes. A later writer suggested that getting the ‘white ants’ in the head was a byproduct of living a solitary life in the bush. But the real point here is how the Australian language out-invents every other branch of English on earth. Every dialect of English, in every country, had ‘white ant’ as a colloquial expression for termites. But only in Australia did it occur to someone to suggest that these burrowing, undermining, little insects might stand as an image for what can happen to your brain, or what you can do to an organisation you don’t like. In fact, I wonder if the second follows from the first? Do you start to ‘white ant’ people or an organisation because your brain has first itself been ‘white anted’? It would certainly explain those factions within political parties that go around ‘white anting’ every other faction! 

Touch grass This is one I have only just discovered, although I gather it has been around for a few years. But what does ‘touch grass’ mean among those trendy people who are quick to pick up on new expressions? The Merriam-Webster mob of top experts say that ‘touch grass’ means: ‘to participate in normal activities in the real world especially as opposed to online experiences and interactions.’ And the Collins Dictionary agrees, saying almost exactly the same thing: ‘to go outside instead of spending too much time online.’ And the Cambridge Dictionary is on the same page: ‘to spend time outside in nature or doing activities in the real world instead of spending time on the internet.’ The Merriam-Webster people quoted an article from the New York Times aboutguided nature walks in New York City under a headline that said: ‘These New Yorkers are Toughing Grass.’ Which is fair enough. But it is rather too bland for me. I think ‘touch grass’ can have a sharper meaning than that. And the Urban Dictionary (as is its way) agrees with me, saying that ‘touch grass’ is: ‘used when someone is doing something weird, stupid, or pointless. it means they need to come back to reality; they need to get some fresh air and get back in touch with how the real world works.’ In other words, ‘touch grass’ is a newer way of saying, ‘it’s time to wake up and smell the flowers.’ Or (my favourite variation on that) ‘it’s time to wake up and smell the coffee.’ Now all of this is, I argue, highly relevant today because we are surrounded by people who are living in some kind of disconnected fantasy, and not dealing with the real, common sense, world around us. Did I mention politicians? I should have done, because too many of them are living in the little world of their own ideology and paying no attention to the damage they are doing to the rest of us with their dumb decisions. We would all be better off if they would wake up and ‘touch grass.’ I’ve been travelling on trains a bit lately and I notice as I look around the carriage how many people are glued to their phones. They are hooked on their little screen world and would be mentally (and emotionally and spiritually) better, if only they could turn off their phones and ‘touch grass.’ Nice little phrase, isn’t it?

Trad wife In the early 1960s the Top 40 charts included a string of hits that were called ‘trad jazz’ (a label that had been coined in 1955). It was, I think, an expression used in Britain and Australia, but not commonly in America. They included hits by Kenny Ball and his Jazzmen, Mr Aker Bilk, Chris Barber and Helen Shapiro. This was (briefly) so popular that it even came out as a movie It’s Trad Dad! Starring all of the above named. I only mention this to pick up on the abbreviation ‘trad’—which is, clearly, the cut down version of ‘traditional.’ (‘Trad jazz’ was really Dixieland jazz.) Now that adjective is being revived in this new combination of ‘trad wife’—hence, clearly, it means ‘traditional wife.’ According to Australia’s own Macquarie Dictionary this is: ‘a controversial term that sounds like an insult to some, and a badge of honour to others. However you feel about it, a tradwife is a woman who has willingly embraced the duties and values of a wife in what some call a traditional marriage. Setting aside the conflicting claims about what ‘traditional’ really means here, there is no doubt that tradwife is a new idea, and one which is pitched against all the social and cultural changes to the institution of marriage that have taken place in the last 100 years.’ Of course, those of us in the Boomer generation see no controversy here, and no contradiction. What a traditional family consists of was not settled a hundred years ago but thousands of years ago—because a traditional family is what works. Mainly, of course, a traditional family is good for the kids. Every bit of research ever done has shown that (on average) children flourish at their best when raised by their biological parents—with the ‘extended family’ (grandparents, aunts and uncles and so on) contributing their bit as well. That’s ‘tradition.’ Discarding it looks like lunacy. ‘Trad wife’ is already turning up in some dictionaries. The Cambridge Dictionary offers this definition of ‘trad wife’: ‘a married woman, especially one who posts on social media, who stays at home doing cooking, cleaning, etc. and has children that she takes care of.’ But it’s still a very new expression. So far I’ve only been able to trace it back to 2022. But the fact this this is around, and part of the discussion, is a jolly good thing!

Habeas Corpus For years we’ve been hearing the expression ‘habeas corpus.’ And in all of that time we’ve (very roughly) had some idea of what it meant. But so rough was our understanding that I thought it wouldn’t hurt to unpack a little of the history. It is, quite obviously, a bit of Latin—in fact, a bit of legal Latin. It turns up in English (in the legal sense in which it’s used today) from the 1400s. ‘Habeas corpus’ literally means ‘have the body.’ In a courtroom a writ of ‘habeas corpus’ means something more like ‘produce the body’—that is, ‘bring the person here before us.’ Behind it is the notion that it is not legally proper to seize someone, throw them in the clink, and just leave them there without the permission of a court. There is a longer form of the expression—a writ of ‘habeas corpus ad subjiciendum’ requires that the person (‘the body’) that has been seized be brought to stand before the judge so the court can rule on whether or not it’s lawful for them to be held in custody. The big American dictionary, the Merriam-Webster, says: ‘In United States law ‘habeas corpus’ is also called “the Great Writ,” and it is not about a person’s guilt or innocence, but about whether custody of that person is lawful under the U.S. Constitution.’ If you follow the news, you may have noticed there has been a good deal of hoo-ha about this recently—focussed on the Trump government’s right to seize and deport illegal aliens. The New York Times has written that ‘…the Trump administration’s expansive view of presidential power, [has] flipped the legal right [of ‘habeas corpus’] on its head, turning a constitutional shield against unlawful detention into broad presidential authority.’ As I write this I’m struggling to remember how the expression was used in all those crime shows and legal dramas. In the old Perry Mason TV shows I have the impression that ‘habeas corpus’ was used by Perry to make Lieutenant Tragg and Hamilton Burger produce in court his client whom they had snatched and hidden away in a remote police station. Mainly so that Perry could then ask for (and always get) bail for his client. And I confess that Erle Stanley Gardner’s Perry Mason novels are the only legal textbooks I’ve ever read!