Category Archives: Words, phrases & expressions

Jolly hockey sticks, and other jolly posh stuff

Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge Visits St Andrew's School

Do you ever have the urge to talk like a posh git Brit? When the need to sound like an overgrown English public schoolboy overwhelms you, just pepper your language with some of the following words and expressions – most of which are horribly outdated and only uttered nowadays by non-Brits pretending to be posh Brits — and you’ll be  well on your way to becoming a toff, a pompous twit, or a good old-fashioned Hooray Henry in no time at all. Jeeves and Wooster would be proud. Bottoms up, old boy!

By George! By golly! By ginger! By gosh!: Basically a posh old version of OMG! The “minced oath” or exclamation dates from the early 1600s, when “George” and the other g-words were used as substitutes for God to avoid blasphemy. The expression started off as “for George” or “before George,” according to the Oxford English Dictionary. The OED’s earliest example is from Ben Jonson’s 1598 play Every Man in His Humor: “I, Well! he knowes what to trust to, for George.” Here’s Henry Higgins, in one of the expression’s more famous examples: Continue reading

TGIF: That Gerund Is Funky (July 18)

Wayne

TGIF: That Gerund Is Funky …

In language and grammar news this past fortnight: a fight over the name Duke (which doesn’t include Bo, Luke or Daisy); the grammar of police shootings; a possible typo in the Declaration of Independence; the effect of bad spelling on sales – but how it can also save you a fortune; and a treasure-trove of lists from mental_floss — which include ancient slang for sex and origins of nursery rhymes and state names.

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John Wayne’s heirs are duking it out in court with Duke University (in North Carolina) to use his longstanding nickname — “Duke” — to market a line of bourbon. The BBC has the report. 

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The Schwalbe – a dishonest dive

dive2   dive1

 

In football (and I don’t mean American football), certain tricky players try to gain an unfair advantage by deliberately diving to the ground — sometimes feigning injury during the dramatic tumble — to make it look like a foul by the opponent. A dive* is what that tactic is commonly called; or a Schwalbe, if you’re German, Dutch, or just very hip to soccer lingo. I’m not any of those, but my Dutch friend is …

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To be twee, or not to be twee

owls

On June 3, Marc Spitz’s new book, Twee: The Gentle Revolution in Music, Books, Television, Fashion and Film was published by IT Books/Harper Collins.

But hang on a minute: what does twee actually mean? An adjective with slightly onomatopoeic and diminutive implications  — originally thought to represent a childish pronunciation of sweet, its straightforward meaning according to the OED is sweet, dainty or chic; but this British colloquialism has a distinctively derogatory flavor — one that smacks of more affectedly and repellently quaint: precious or overly saccharine, rather than simply sweet.

The Telegraph in summing up Philippe Le Guay’s movie Cycling with Moliere declares that “twee groanishness abounds”. An English reader gets exactly what that means, even if we haven’t seen the film in question: we’re unlikely to pay the cost of admission and candied popcorn if we’re in for an evening of groanish twee. But have Americans taken that quaint 4-letter word and taken it too far — or gone slightly off course in their understanding of it? Continue reading

Faff, naff, chuffed and nous(e)

naff

Faff, naff, chuffed and nous (rhyming with mouse). Oh dear: I’m going to miss Blighty.

“We’ve been sat in the car park for a good 15 minutes, faffing about with the satnav and trying to make Rupert’s new phone work.” — The Telegraph reporters at Glastonbury

“We will leave to one side the subtle humour – or otherwise – of Mr Cleese’s performance in the naff Pierce Brosnan Bond film Die Another Day.” — The Telegraph about 007’s latest

“’I’m afraid I have to default on these bonds.’ ‘No you do not!’ ‘Naff off, Gringo…'” — International Financing Review wondering what power a US court should have to determine whether a foreign sovereign nation can or cannot declare its ability to pay its debts. 

Chuffed to bits – Lewes Railway Station looks blooming lovely for summer” — Sussex Express on the transformation of Lewes Railway Station’s gardens and planters

“Former England striker Gary Lineker has expressed his belief that the Three Lions lacked tactical nous on the field in their World Cup defeats.” — Sports Mole on the World Cup.

Yeah — these colloquialisms are Britishisms at their very best. You’ll hear them only on one side of the Atlantic — the more eccentric side — but by gum do they do the trick for anyone who cares to use them. Isn’t faffing around just the perfect expression for that thing we all do sometimes when we’re very busy achieving sod all?

Here’s what the words mean and where they come from. And below them are 18 more that are equally expressive and quirky — and peculiar to us limeys.

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Solstice, or sunstead

solstice

June 21st: the summer solstice.

One of two days in the year when the sun is furthest from the celestial equator, and so the difference in length between night and day is at its greatest: 21st June is the longest day of the year, 21st December the shortest. (But because the duration of the earth’s orbit around the sun is slightly longer than the 365-day calendar, those dates can vary.)

On this winter day the sun appears at its lowest point in the sky, and its noontime elevation appears to”stop” in the sky and stay the same for several days before and after the solstice, and so the word finds its origins. Dating back to the mid-13th century, solstice is from the Latin solstitium — “the point at which the sun seems to stand still” — from sol, “sun”, stitium, “a stoppage”, and sistere, “to stand still”. In very early use, the word came into English as sunstead (or, in late Old English, sunstede).

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Simulcast: the word is in the media

simulcast

The New York Times wrote yesterday that “the Metropolitan Opera announced that it was canceling plans to simulcast John Adams’s “The Death of Klinghoffer” this fall to cinemas around the world.” The Guardian similarly reported that “New York’s Metropolitan Opera have cancelled an international simulcast of John Adams’ opera The Death of Klinghoffer due to ‘an outpouring of concern’ that it ‘might be used to fan global anti-semitism’.” (We won’t dwell on the newspaper’s strange plural conjugation “the Met have cancelled” — as if the opera company were a football team, or on its denial of a possessive s to the composer’s name, or on its dubious use of “due to”; all that can be left for another discussion or two.)

Glossophilia’s outpouring of concern is to do with the word simulcast, which has become ubiquitous as more and more live performances — theatrical, musical, operatic, even ecclesiastical — are being beamed over the airwaves and into cinemas, living rooms and public spaces around the world. But what does simulcast actually mean, and how does it distinguish itself from the older word broadcast?

The answer depends on what side of the Atlantic you’re on.

First, let’s take the more straightforward broadcast: Oxford Dictionaries defines the verb (and its related noun) as “to transmit (a programme or some information) by radio or television”. The word dates back to 1767, according to the Online Etymology Dictionary, as an adjective referring to the spreading of seed, from broad (adj.) + the past participle of cast (v.). Its figurative use is recorded from 1785, and the modern media use began with radio in 1922, as an adjective and noun. As a verb, it is recorded from 1813 in an agricultural sense, 1829 in a figurative sense, and from 1921 referring to radio.

Now let’s look at the younger and more media-hip simulcast  — a portmanteau dating back to the 1940s that blends simultaneous and broadcast, taking us beyond seed-sowing and into a more complex world of technology and semantics. According to Oxford Dictionaries, it means “a simultaneous transmission of the same program on radio and television, or on two or more channels, eg. a Radio1/BBC2 simulcast”. Carried by more than one media channel, it differs from a broadcast not in its numerical or geographical reach, but by the number of vehicles that transport the light and sound waves across lawns and oceans.

But the North American definition is different: there the noun simulcast (and its related verb) refers to “a live transmission of a public celebration or sports event, eg. simulcasts of live races.”

It’s debatable whether the Klinghoffer simulcast-that-won’t-be should really have been labelled as such by either of the distinguished newspapers quoted above — whether they were American or British. Since it was to be transmitted by the Met’s own Live in HD series — ie. just one medium — the performance wasn’t technically going to be simulcast, as The Guardian reported. The New York Times is arguably even further off base, if you go by Oxford Dictionaries’ American definition, since the opera couldn’t be described as either a public celebration or a sports event by any stretch of the imagination. (The Met itself describes these events as either “performance transmissions” or simply “broadcasts”.)

But like all the Met’s Live in HD broadcasts, this transmission was set to reach millions of eyes and ears around the world — simultaneously. So if there were ever a case for stretching or changing the definition of the simulcast, many might argue that this is it.

Understanding undergarments: a brief on smalls

undies

Jockeys and briefs, tighty-wighteys and knickers … Welcome to the world of smalls. That’s one handy British nickname (strutting only its plural self in the undieworld) for undergarments that clothe our nether regions: what we all call underwear on both sides of the Atlantic. That’s about the extent of our agreement when it comes to naming our drawers and briefs: Brits and Americans tend to part company when chatting about their undies and their intimates, even though we generally understand each other’s proverbials…

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Alight here

alight here

Courtesy Flickr

alighting

Courtesy Flickr

There’s a funny quirk of the English public transport system that I was reminded of recently during a trip to Brighton. “Alight here for the pier”, bus passengers were advised by the recorded voice with a cut-glass accent reminiscent of BBC wartime broadcasts. Then I realized it isn’t just Sussex folk who alight from trains and buses: Londoners on the tube are told politely not just to “mind the gap” on boarding and exiting their carriages but also to alight for certain lines and destinations. “Alight here for Buckingham Palace” is something I can imagine A. A. Milne’s Christopher Robin might have chirped, but the word strikes me as a charming anachronism in 21st-century English. Would you hear it in any other context — or indeed in any other country?

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