Category Archives: Yanks vs. Brits

On pogey

A British friend tells you she’s “on pogey”. Should this be cause for celebration or commiseration? Sadly, it’s the latter, as explained in Anglophenia’s list of British terms for the unemployed …

http://www.bbcamerica.com/anglophenia/2012/11/the-brit-list-five-british-terms-for-the-unemployed/

The Brit List: Five British Terms for the Unemployed

By Fraser McAlpine | Posted on Tuesday, November 20th, 2012

A British dole queue. The past.

Made Redundant

Let’s start with the nicest possible way to go from being in gainful employment to not being in gainful employment, when your job ceases to exist. It’s nothing you’ve done wrong, it’s merely that the company cannot sustain your position any more, and as such, they cannot continue to employ you to do whatever it is that you do. However, they will offer some money for your trouble, and if you’ve been there a long time, you get more of it. So it’s a little odd that this upsetting, but impersonal, business practice is called being made redundant, rather than reaching the end of your funding or financially impractial. Might as well call it being surplus to requirements and have done with it.

Get The Sack

A less pleasant version of the above is when you’ve done something wrong, or are perceived to be a fifth wheel, and suddenly find yourself out of work with no severance pay or anything except a testy “you got 10 minutes to clear your desk, GO.”

The phrase dates back to 17th century France, where tradesmen would carry their tools in a hessian bag or sack. If they were sacked, they’d have to get the sack to put their stuff in. The phrase didn’t actually make its way across to England until the early 1800s, and by then it was already abstracted, to include all people in employment. In the North of England, they stuck with get the bag for a while, and in London get the empty was preferred.

Get the Spanish archer

As with get the sack, or sacked, this is a variation on a fairly well-known phrase. Sometimes a sacking comes with a suggestion of physical assault – most commonly from the boot or elbow, as in get the elbow or get the boot – as if you’re literally being barged or kicked out of a job. Well, if you then take get the elbow as your starting phrase, it wouldn’t take too long for a witty mind to try and come up with further variations, to find an artful or comedic way of saying the same thing. Get the Spanish archer is a perfect example, because what would a Spanish archer be called (to a mocking British mind)? El Bow, naturally.

On The Dole

The benefit paid out to unemployed people in the UK has been known as the dole since the end of the First World War. The word comes from the term doling-out, as it was seen as a charitable gift from the state, after the trauma of war. A typical early reference appeared in the 1919 Daily Mail, in which they tell claimants “you won’t draw your out-of-work dole of 29s. this week.”

This then informed all future references to unemployment benefit, from Dole Office (where you go to sign on) to being on the dole to being a dole-ite (if you were unemployed for a long time).

Soon it found its way into popular song, from “Doledrums” by the La’s to “Love on the Dole” by the Libertines, to “All The Way From Memphis” by Mott The Hoople:

“It’s a mighty long way down rock ‘n’ roll, from Top of the Pops to drawing the dole”

On Pogey

Another slang term for unemployment benefit, this time coming from the Scottish term for a workhouse: pogie. The workhouse would be where people with no money would end up, and so going on pogey became a hand-me-down expression for taking the welfare check. Sadly it never made it to a Mott the Hoople song.

It’s 4:20: do you know where your teen is? Is he at low tea or high tea? Or just high?

“420”. Or more specifically: Four Twenty. What does that mean to you? For me, I’m transported back to a specific time every weekday afternoon at my boarding school in the English countryside when we would sip warm tea and dip our dry Rich Tea biscuits (and occasionally cake, if we were lucky) into our cups at the end of a long school day. Low tea was, for many, the high point of the day; long were the minutes spent waiting in class for the school bell to ring out, heralding the arrival of caffeine-and-sugar-time. In those days (and this will surely date me), 4.20 meant simply a number or time of day: tea-time! Its ‘higher’ connotations had yet to spread beyond the drug culture of Californian youth …

Let’s go 420, and explore the origin and history (and the truths and myths) of the term. And let’s also look at the origin and history (and widespread misunderstanding) of the terms “low tea” and “high tea”, and find out just what is eaten at what time on each occasion.

“Let’s go 420, dude!”

You have to have been hiding under a rock for the last couple of decades if you don’t know what 420 means. But ask anyone why, and the haze of uncertainty about its etymology is about as thick as the mind of a ’70s Deadhead (which is actually where the term spent much of its infancy, probably also under a rock). “Isn’t or wasn’t 420 the police dispatch code for smoking pot?” No, it’s not the dispatch code for anything. “Hitler’s birthday was April 20.” So …? “4.20pm is tea-time for pot-smokers in Holland.” Yeah, and for everyone else in the world, including the Queen of England. “There are approximately 420 active chemicals in marijuana.” There are about 315 active chemicals in marijuana, but the actual number fluctuates depending on which plant you’re using. “April 20 is the date that Jim Morrison/Jimi Hendrix/Janis Joplin [pick one] died.” Nice try, but even though they were all strongly associated with drugs and drug-taking, not one of them died on April 20.

Steven Hager, editor of High Times, traced the term 420 back to a group of about a dozen pot-smoking high-school students in 60s/70s San Rafael, California, who called themselves the Waldos. The kids first used the term in fall 1971 as part of a plan to search for a cannabis crop that was rumored to have been abandoned in a nearby forest. For this particular marijuana hunt, which was repeated on several occasions (although that crop never was never to be found), the Waldos agreed to meet at 4.20pm near a statue on the school campus before heading into the woods. The meeting time for the hunt became a general meeting time for smoking pot, and so as not to let on to unsuspecting parents or teachers, 420 became their code-word for a time to get high. As it spread beyond the school grounds, referring more generally to the art and recreation of marijuana-taking, the term began to take root amongst the dope-smoking Californians of the day — notably the Deadheads (Grateful Dead fans and followers) who were local to and associated with San Rafael. And before long, 420 was understood and used (linguistically as well as literally) by an entire generation of potheads, who have in turn passed it along to their own issue — the word, the habit, and in some cases the wacky baccy itself. Here’s a flyer that was handed out by Deadheads in Oakland, CA before a Grateful Dead concert in 1990:

The term 420 is now ubiquitous in popular culture and in the common vernacular, often with tongue in cheek or as an oblique reference to Grandpa’s medicine. Most of the clocks in Pulp Fiction are set to 4:20. (There is one watch set to 9.00.) There’s both a record label and a band called 4:20. Atlanta’s Sweetwater Brewing Company sells 420 Pale Ale and opens at 4.20pm most weekdays. A New York-based travel company, 420 Tours, sells cheap packages to the Netherlands and Jamaica. California’s Senate Bill 420 regulates marijuana used for medical purposes. In 2001, the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services’ Center for Substance Abuse Prevention published (on its web site) a document called: “It’s 4:20: do you know where your teen is?”

Nowadays, you’ll find “420-friendly” used commonly as an attribute — alongside height, education, hobbies and fetishes — by online romance-seekers in their web profiles. So if you’re looking to date a stoner, you’re in luck: just type 420 into the search-box …

Low tea and high tea

Low tea

High tea

That’s not a mistake: these are fair representations of the meals “low tea” and “high tea”, names that derive not from the tides, the time of day, nor the quality or class of food prepared, but from the height of the tables at which the meals were traditionally taken.

In the 17th and 18th centuries, “tea was generally consumed within a lady’s closet or bedchamber and for a mainly female gathering.” Ladies would receive callers with their morning tea, usually “abed and bare-breasted” (from “A Social History of Tea” by Jane Pettigrew). It is generally thought that the English afternoon tea tradition was established in the early 19th century by Anna Maria Russell, Duchess of Bedford, a lifelong friend of Queen Victoria whom she served for a time as a lady of the bedchamber. The Duchess, feeling the energy low that hits us all in the late afternoon, started asking for light sandwiches and tea to be brought to her to tide her and her rumbly-tummy over between the lunchtime and evening meals. Then she invited others to join her in this afternoon repast, and so the tradition of afternoon or “low” tea was born. Ladies of the fashionable upper classes would serve a ‘low’ or ‘afternoon’ tea around four o’clock, just before a promenade in the park.

Low tea can consist of any combination of biscuits, sandwiches (cucumber please), scones with clotted cream and jam, and, most importantly, tea. It’s not so much a meal as a light and indulgent afternoon snack. (Although who would call scones with clotted cream and jam ‘light’?) “Low tea” got its name from the furniture and setting of those partaking of the late afternoon fare: in living or drawing rooms in low armchairs, with low side-tables pulled alongside them on which could be placed cups and saucers, doilies and side-plates.

High tea, on the other hand, was served at the dining table. High tea is a more substantial evening meal, usually consisting of “meat and two veg” (or a similar combination); it was the main meal put on the table at around 6 pm for the working man of the family to return home to. However, high tea wasn’t a meal just of the working class. The middle and upper classes would sometimes take a high tea in the early evening – at five or six o’clock – replacing the later evening dinner, especially if there were evening entertainments planned (much like our modern pre-theater meal) or not enough staff on duty to cook or serve the dinner feast.

For inexplicable reasons, “high tea” has persisted in modern English usage – especially in America – and is often used erroneously instead of “low tea”, which is now moreorless obsolete, to describe the traditional afternoon fare. When an American hotel or tea-house offers a “high tea” service, you can be sure you’ll be eating the equivalent – at least linguistically – of tea at the Waldorf, and not the fish and chips and mushy peas that characterized the high teas of yore.

* * * * *

Thanks to Snopes.com, High Times and the Huffington Post for the dope on 420; and Afternoon Tea and Afternoon to Remember for lessons in the history and etiquette of afternoon tea.

http://hightimes.com/entertainment/ht_admin/834

http://www.snopes.com/language/stories/420.asp#DQK60F3kSb7mEd6o.99

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/04/20/what-420-means-the-true-s_n_188320.html

http://www.afternoontea.co.uk

http://www.afternoontoremember.com

‘Britishisms’ Creeping into American English

Nice piece published by Yahoo News on Thursday. Thanks, Rona, for the hat-tip.

http://news.yahoo.com/britishisms-creeping-american-english-183652134.html

‘Britishisms’ Creeping into American English

By Natalie Wolchover | LiveScience.com – Thu, Sep 27, 2012

British people have long bemoaned the gradual encroachment of Americanisms into everyday speech, via Hollywood films and sitcoms. Now, “Britishisms” are crossing the pond the other way, thanks to the growing online popularity of British media such as Harry Potter, Downton Abbey and The Daily Mail.

For example, BBC News reports that “ginger” as a descriptor of a red-haired, freckly person has shot up in usage in the United States since 1998. That’s the year the first Harry Potter book, with its Weasley family of gingers, hit store shelves. The trend shows up in Google ngram searches, which track the frequency of words and phrases appearing in print.

The Britishism invasion also includes “cheeky,” “twee,” “chat-up,” “sell-by date” and “the long game,” as well as “do the washing up,” “keen on,” “bit” (as in “the best bit”), “to book” (e.g. a flight), “called X” (instead of “named X”) and “to move house.”

A few of these now sound so familiar to American ears that their recent Limey origins might come as a surprise. [Why Do Americans and Brits Have Different Accents?]

While some of these British terms have gained ground because they sound pleasantly posh to American ears, Jesse Sheidlower, American editor-at-large of the Oxford English Dictionary, says others simply fill a gap where there is no equivalent in American English. “One-off,” as in something which is done, or made, or which happens only once, and “go missing,” instead of the vaguer “disappear,” are two examples.

According to Sheidlower, the small but noticeable increase in the American usage of traditionally British terms doesn’t bother Americans nearly as much as Americanisms bother many Brits.

“In the U.K., the use of Americanisms is seen as a sign that culture is going to hell,” he told BBC News. “But Americans think all British people are posh, so — aside from things that are fairly pretentious — no-one would mind.”

This laissez-faire linguistic attitude hasn’t always been the American way. Early in U.S. history, when the nation was striving to distinguish itself from its former landlords, the dictionary maker Noah Webster set about establishing a distinctly American form of English. Webster’s legacy includes the lack of “u” in words like “color” and the “-er” ending in words like “center” — spelling variants he viewed as superior to their British counterparts (colour and centre).

Some of the economical spellings Webster adopted, such as “public” instead of the British “publick,” have since spread back to England. Clearly, in the continuously evolving languages of these transatlantic allies, there is give and take.

He can’t drive home: he’s Brahms and Liszt!

[Warning: obscenities ahead …]

Marking Glossophilia’s 100th post, we’re celebrating the wonderful world of Cockney rhyming slang.

This clever and often amusing form of speech started in the East End of London, probably in the mid-19th century (although there are references to a specific Cockney dialect dating back to the 17th century, when regional folk traditions first began to be recorded). The OED‘s first recorded use of Cockney language is dated 1776. It’s difficult to establish exactly how, when and why it originated – partly because it was spoken by street-traders, costermongers and working-class Londoners, but not written and recorded by scholars and academics. The slightly convoluted ‘code’ or system of the rhyming slang, which is explained below, makes the lingo difficult to understand by non-users, and there are various interesting theories about whether it evolved by accident or design, and from whom its originators sought to keep their communications secret. Some suggest that it was a language of thieves; others that it was used by traders to talk and collude with each other without customers or eavesdroppers being privy to their conversations. Perhaps the truth lies somewhere between the two: it could have been a way for shady tradesmen to conduct their dodgy businesses without the “Old Bill” cottoning on (London’s police force was established in 1829, at roughly the same time Cockney slang began to take root; the timing might not have been coincidental). Or the local slang might have had more innocent beginnings as fun market banter that helped maintain a sense of community.

Here’s how it works: A common word (usually a noun) is replaced with a phrase of two or three words that rhymes with it, and then the rhyming part of that phrase is (usually) taken away, leaving the non-rhyming word to serve as the slang. The omission of the rhyming word is what makes this Cockney slang so hard for outsiders to decipher. Let’s take an example that’s still in common usage: butchers is slang for look. The phrase “butcher’s hook” rhymes with look, then hook is removed. Hence a Londoner will say “I’ll take a butchers” when he’s going to take a look. Another popular one is trouble, slang for wife (“trouble and strife”...).

Cockney rhyming slang is alive and well today. Fans of British TV will hear it in many programs set in London – eg. Steptoe and Son, Mind Your Language, The Sweeney, Minder, Citizen Smith, and Only Fools and Horses. And it’s rife in EastEnders, a soap opera following the lives of people who live and work in Albert Square, a fictional market square in London’s East End. Cockney slang continues to evolve – often incorporating words and names that are relevant to the time, including contemporary celebrities and personalities. For example, “Tony Blairs” is the modern rhyming slang for “flares” (as in wide-bottomed pants or trousers), but it used to be “Lionel Blairs” (Lionel Blair was a well-known actor/TV presenter in the ’60s, ’70s and ’80s). A few words and phrases have been absorbed into more widespread English usage. To scarper (to flee, go, or run away) is understood widely as a British colloquialism; it comes from Scapa Flow = Go (Scapa Flow is a body of water in the Scottish Orkney Islands). As Wikipedia explains: “The use of rhyming slang has spread beyond the purely dialectal and some examples are to be found in the mainstream British English lexicon and internationally, although many users may be unaware of the origin of those words. One example is “berk”, a mild pejorative widely used across the UK and not usually considered particularly offensive, although the origin lies in a contraction of “Berkeley Hunt”, as the rhyme for the significantly more offensive “cunt”. ”

Listen to three Londoners slinging some Cockney rhyming slang around in this colorful video shot in a London pub:

Cockney Rhyming Slang

Thanks to Fun-With-Words.com for this list of some of the most common – and amusing – examples of rhyming slang still in popular usage today.

Apples and Pairs – Stairs – “I’m too old for those apples”

Army and Navy – Gravy – “Pass the army, will you?”

Bacon and Eggs – Legs – “She has such long bacons.”

Barnet Fair – Hair – “I’m going to have my barnet cut.”

Brahms and Liszt – Pissed (BrE, as in drunk)

Bees and Honey – Money – “Hand over the bees.”

Biscuits and Cheese – Knees – “Ooh! What knobbly biscuits!”

Bull and Cow – Row (as in argument) – “We don’t have to have a bull about it.”

Butcher’s Hook – Look – “I had a butchers at it through the window.”

Cobbler’s Awls – Balls – “You’re talking cobblers!”

Crust of Bread – Head – “Use your crust, lad.”

Daffadown Dilly – Silly – “She’s a bit daffy.”

Hampton Wick – Prick – “You’re getting on my wick!”

Khyber Pass – Arse – “Stick that up your Khyber.”

Loaf of Bread – Head – “Think about it; use your loaf.”

Mince Pies – Eyes – “What beautiful minces.”

Oxford Scholar – Dollar – “Could you lend me an Oxford?”

Pen and Ink – Stink – “Pooh! It pens a bit in here.”

Rabbit and Pork – Talk – “I don’t know what she’s rabbiting about.”

Raspberry Tart – Fart – “I can smell a raspberry.”

Scarpa Flow – Go – “Scarpa! The police are coming!”

Trouble and Strife – Wife – “The trouble’s been shopping again.”

Uncle Bert – Shirt – “I’m ironing my Uncle.”

Weasel and Stoat – Coat – “Where’s my weasel?”

~~~~~~~~~~~

Finally, here are some gems picked especially for Glossophilia readers:

Dicky bird – Word – “I didn’t say a dicky bird!”

Porkies / Pork pies – Lies – “Have you been telling porkies again?”

and finally …

Septic tank – American (Yank) – “Last I heard, she took up with a septic.”

* and in case you’re wondering about the title of this post: Brahms and Liszt = Pissed (BrE, as in drunk)

***

And now for something somewhat different …

This morning on one of American Public Media’s radio news shows I heard a commentator say the following: “It’s somewhat of an exaggeration.” Would I ever hear those words said on BBC Radio 4, I thought? Probably not. But why not?

Something of and somewhat have similar meanings in different forms of speech: somewhat is an adverb used to qualify an adjective (“he is somewhat rude”) and something of qualifies a noun instead (“he is something of a jerk”) – although I’m not entirely sure what grammatical form something of is. (If you know, please let us know in the comments section: is it a prenominal adjective, or perhaps a prenominal noun, or simply a noun and pronoun?) Many would argue that somewhat of is an error, in which the two uses are wrongly confused and combined. According to the Oxford English Dictionary, somewhat used as a noun/pronoun instead of something is archaic. But I believe this usage has become standard – if still somewhat colloquial – in American English, more or less supplanting something of in everyday speech, if not in writing. However, I think it’s jarring to most British ears.

And this isn’t to say that there aren’t BrE colloquialisms involving the word something that strain the American ear. “My back hurts something awful!”: You would be unlikely to hear that in an American gym. But now let’s take a look at British regional dialects and accents, and we might get closer to understanding why something and somewhat have become somewhat interchangeable, at least on American shores. In Yorkshire, and perhaps in the West country (or in Hardy’s Wessex), you’d be likely to hear that sentence pronounced somewhat differently: “Me back ‘urts summat awful!” Summat is the northern dialect version of the word something, and of course it sounds much closer to somewhat (and some would argue that it’s actually derived from somewhat, rather than something). Perhaps it lingers from the Old English use of somewhat in place of something – and it’s not unusual to find American words and pronunciations more closely resembling Old English rather than modern English.

Now let’s take somewhat, which in BrE is now considered rather formal, stuffy, or archaic. Unless they’re in the House of Lords, Brits tend to work with other words and expressions when they want to downplay or ‘de-emphasize’ the adjective that follows: “She’s a little shocked by the discovery,” or “he was relatively new to the industry”. Rather and quite are other modifying adverbs that can take the sting out of an extreme adjective, but rather confusingly, they are both often used to add rather than take away emphasis. See this earlier post on Glossophilia: https://glossophilia.org/?p=77

Fowler was forthright (and somewhat scathing) in his derision of the word somewhat and other ‘shock-absorbers’ like it: “Somewhat has for the inferior journalist what he would be likely to describe as ‘a somewhat amazing fascination’. …What first moves people to experiment in the somewhat style is partly timidity – they are frightened by the coming strong word and would fain take precautions against shock – and partly the notion that an air of studious understatement is superior and impressive; and so in our newspapers ‘the intemperate orgy of moderation is renewed every morning’. Cf. the similar use of comparatively and relatively as shock-absorbers.”

I wonder if Fowler’s description is more about the English mind-set than its lingo: “timidity”, “studious understatement” and “intemperate orgies of moderation” sound somewhat British to me …

It’s fortuitous – but is it fortunate? Only in America, it seems …

In a recent e-mail to my Dad, I told him about an event that had seemed ‘very fortuitous’ to me (because of my understanding of the word to mean a mixture of coincidence and good fortune). He was surprised that I would have qualified such an adjective, which to his mind can’t be found in different grades or extremes: in the same way that something is either unique or it isn’t, he would argue that an event or happening either is or isn’t fortuitous.

Over to my Dad, Brian Barder, for his research and comments on the matter. It’s fortunate for me – and, I admit, in this case fortuitous – that I have an American passport: he’s let me off the hook because of it …

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s interesting that you reckon that “fortuitous has extra connotations of luck or good fortune (unlike accidental or coincidental) – and there are definitely different extremes of good luck and fortune”, which is not confirmed by the big OED Online:

fortuitous That happens or is produced by fortune or chance; accidental, casual. fortuitous concourse of atoms: see concourse n. 3a. fortuitous event (Law): see quot. 1856.

1653 H. More Antidote Atheism (1712) iii. xv. 135 This Argument against the fortuitous concourse of Atoms.

1712 J. Addison Spectator No. 293. ¶4 The highest Degree of it [sc. Wisdom] which Man can possess, is by no means equal to fortuitous Events.

1806 R. Fellowes tr. Milton Second Def. in Wks. (Bohn) I. 240 This extraordinary kindness..cannot be any fortuitous combination.

1823 Scott Peveril I. Pref. Let. p. iii, A fortuitous rencontre.

1856 J. Bouvier Law Dict. U.S.A., Fortuitous event, a term in the civil law to denote that which happens by a cause which cannot be resisted..Or it is that which neither of the parties has occasioned or could prevent.

1865 Pall Mall Gaz. 27 Oct. 6 The epithet he [Lord Palmerston] applied to the coalition of parties against him on the China question in 1857—‘a fortuitous concourse of atoms’.

1877 W. Sparrow Serm. xviii. 241 Neither fortuitous nor necessitated, but entirely under the governmental control of the great and good God.

absol.

1855 H. Spencer Princ. Psychol. iv. iii. 530 All physical relations whatever, from the absolutely indissoluble to the fortuitous.

(“Fortune” in that definition obviously means chance, neither good nor bad fortune and certainly not luck as in ‘lucky’.)

Do you have a copy of Bob Burchfield’s 3rd edition of Fowler’s Modern English Usage, which has an excellent essay on ‘fortuitous’? As I thought, the idea that fortuitous has some connection with fortunate is an error that began to creep in towards the beginning of the C20 because of the coincidental (fortuitous!) resemblance between the two words, although they have completely different origins — fors (chance) in the case of fortuitous, fortunus (luck, fortune) for the other. The first edition of Fowler described the use of fortuitous to imply fortunate as a straightforward malapropism. Burchfield reluctantly admits that the error is now becoming so common that it’s probably in the process of becoming acceptable. His entry concludes:

Plainly the new meaning is knocking at the door. But readers of this book are urged meanwhile to restrict the word to its traditional (“accidental, by chance”) sense. When an intrusive meaning contains a seed of ambiguity, it is advisable to stay with the older ones.

I’m chuffed to see that Burchfield’s piece starts by quoting a letter of 1987 to him from a friend: “How sad it will be to lose ‘fortuitous’ to the Visigoths.” The friend who wrote that to him was me. I’m still sad to see a good and useful word lost! I hardly ever use it nowadays for fear that I will be thought not to know that in its original and most respectable usage there’s not a hint of good luck or fortune, and that that misapprehension arises purely from a kind of homophonic pun.

The Oxford Dictionary for Writers and Editors says briskly: “due to or charaterized [sic] by chance: not fortunate or well-timed.” The Times Style Guide says “fortuitous does not mean fortunate. It means by chance or accident. Do not confuse.” The Economist Style Guide says “FORTUITOUS means accidental, not fortunate or well-timed.”

However, I see with some gloom that Webster’s College Dictionary, 9th edition, a dictionary of American English of course, does give “fortunate, lucky” as a second definition of fortuitous. Most of the (American) online dictionaries follow Webster. But there’s also this rather good summary:

The traditional, etymological meaning of fortuitous is ‘happening by chance’: a fortuitous meeting is a chance meeting, which might turn out to be either a good thing or a bad thing. Today, however, fortuitous tends to be often used to refer only to fortunate outcomes and the word has become more or less a synonym for ‘lucky’ or ‘fortunate’ ( the ball went into the goal by a fortuitous ricochet). Although this usage is now widespread, it is still regarded by some people as incorrect.
http://oxforddictionaries.com/definition/english/fortuitous

It seems that the word has already been lost, not to the Visigoths as I wrote to Bob Burchfield, but to the Americans. So I suppose you’re off the hook.

10 Things Brits Say … and What Americans Think We Mean

“What we say: “I’m easy.”
What Americans hear: “I always have sex on the first date.”“

Thanks to BBC America’s “Mind the Gap” for this lovely post:

http://www.bbcamerica.com/mind-the-gap/2012/08/14/10-things-brits-sayand-what-americans-think-we-mean/

10 Things Brits Say…and What Americans Think We Mean

By Ruth Margolis | Posted on Tuesday, August 14th, 2012

This is a pretty bird but “fit bird” has an entirely different meaning. (Photo/AP)

We may have invented the English language but that doesn’t mean our version is always understood by those who share our mother tongue.

1. What we say: “Sorry”
What Americans hear: “I sincerely apologize.”
Saying sorry is like a national tic, which means we Brits rarely use the word to convey a heartfelt apology. This is baffling to Americans who will, on occasion, reply with something like, “Why, exactly, are you sorry?” “I’m not,” you’ll say, confused. “Sorry.”

2. What we say: “How do you do?”
What Americans hear: “Please provide a rundown of your most recent medical.”
Despite how it sounds, this is a formal greeting and not an invitation for commentary on a person’s quality of life. But Americans sometimes take it literally and have no problem replying truthfully, with a list of ailments.

3. What we say: “Cheers”
What Americans hear: “To your good health”
In the U.S., this is what people say when they clink glasses in the pub. We do this too but Brits have other uses for this word, all of which will flummox your American friends. Like when we say “cheers” instead of “thank you.” Signing off a phone call or an email this way will leave U.S. folk wondering why you’re toasting them.

4. What we say: “You know what I mean?”
What Americans hear: “Did you comprehend what I just said?”
This British conversation filler isn’t even weighty enough to count as a rhetorical question. Nonetheless, Americans will take it at face value and seek to reassure you that they did indeed understand your last statement.

5. What we say: “I’ve got the right hump.”
What Americans hear: “I have a hunchback.”
Sometime Brits see fit to borrow camels’ dominant physical attribute to help explain that they’re annoyed or frustrated. We’re not, in fact, opening up about a crippling disfigurement.

6. What we say: “It’s a bit dear.”
What Americans hear: “It’s slightly adorable.”
When we Brits want to politely say something is too expensive, we might roll out this quaint old expression. Not a good idea if you’re trying to haggle with an American: they’ll take it as a compliment.

7. What we say: “I got off with this fit bird.”
What Americans hear: “I disembarked with an athletic pigeon.”
Don’t expect Americans to even attempt a translation here. But if they do manage to guess that “got off with” means “made out with”, be sure to clarify that what you mean by “bird.”

8. What we say: “I went to public school.”
What Americans hear: “I went to a school my parents didn’t pay for.”
Americans with a snobbish bent will lap up tales of posh British schooling. However, your use of the word “public” may well throw them off. Begin by explaining that, in the U.K., public school is the same as private school. Or, decide not to have this conversation in the first place because it’ll make you sound like a twit.

9. What we say: “I’m easy.”
What Americans hear: “I always have sex on the first date.”
Even the ultra laidback Brits who use this expression might still take issue with the American translation. To avoid misinterpretation, plump for something more on the nose like, “I don’t mind.”

10. What we say: “All right, darling?”
What Americans hear: “How are you, love of my life?”
Save prudish Americans’ blushes by not directing this informal version of “How do you do?” at them. Worse still is the West Country version, which substitutes “darling” for the infinitely more bewildering and inappropriate “my lover.”

Have you had any issues with Americans not understanding your lingo?

You say beefsteak, I say cherry

Let’s face it: Brits and Americans speak a different language. And often, it’s all about size and number …

Stone/pebble Rock

Rock Rock

Prawn Shrimp

Shrimp Shrimp

small (drink) tall / medium (drink)

large (drink) grande / venti / SUPERSIZE (drink)

24 degrees (grab the suncream) 75 degrees (grab a sweater)

Size 12 Size 10

Maths Math

Sport Sports

First floor Second floor

Two a penny A dime a dozen

A penny for your thoughts Here are my two cents

Fancy a cuppa? Take five!

And it’s not just size or number; sometimes, it’s all about the tense:

Momentarily (past) Just for a second (past)

In a second (future) Momentarily (future)

Brit-phrase Amerci-phrase

Do these expressions sound slightly out of whack to you? If so, you’re probably an American. If not, you must be a Brit.

I can’t make head or tail of what you’re saying.

I couldn’t care less about his beliefs.

He takes his disabilities in his stride.

I’ve got pins and needles in my legs.

That series of lectures is right up my street.

Touch wood, I’ll pass my driving test this time around.

She placed it smack-bang in the middle of the circle.

In this case, if you’re surprised at the outcome you’re probably an American.

After my offensive outburst at work, I was given my marching orders.

And if this sounds weird to you, you’re likely a Brit.

We’re on pins and needles not knowing who won.

And here, if you’re wondering whether tenterhooks are very big pins and needles, or whether A-levels have something to do with camping, you’re probably an American.

We were on tenterhooks for days, until her A-level results came through.

A sight for sore eyes? For Yanks, yes; for Brits, no – or maybe

Watching the Jubilee flotilla on telly this morning, I was struck by a BBC commentator’s strange choice of words as he described the picturesque and colorful scene of hundreds of ships sailing up the Thames. He declared this picture of British idyll to be “a sight for sore eyes”. I did a double-take. In fact, I grabbed my remote and hit rewind, wondering if I had misheard him. Could he have been referring to an unfortunate downpour of rain? Was he being strangely ironic? His words rang out clear as the sky trying to break through the rainclouds above the grand nautical procession.

Had I really been that mistaken, not taking this poetic compliment at its face value (its logic does suggest a happy sight) but wrongly assuming it had been an insult for all these years? Something told me it must be one of those British-American disconnects, and that the Americans are perhaps more literal in their interpretation of the phrase. Sure enough, two online dictionaries confirmed my suspicions: the Macmillan Dictionary gives two definitions for “a sight for sore eyes”: 1) someone or something that you are very pleased to see; 2) (British) something that is strange or unpleasant to look at; the Longman Dictionary of Contemporary English concurs, also giving two opposite meanings: a) someone or something that you feel very happy to see; b) (British English) someone or something that is very unattractive or very funny to look at.

Yet this morning’s commentator for BBC America spoke with what can only be described as a true-blue BBC British accent, with not a twang or whiff of American behind his home-county vowels. Has the expression lost its curiously illogical British sense through either misuse or misunderstanding? Can anyone explain the origin of the British-English topsy-turvy interpretation of this rather lovely but ambiguous phrase?