Occasional observations on the use (and misuse) of language


Not happy. Really not happy at all.

Now, anyone who knows me will be aware that the default setting for my general disposition is, well, somewhat less than sunny.

(This picture, drawn by our son when he was only four, is considered by the rest of the family to be a perfect encapsulation of my usual mood.)

But the 'anti-happy' comments which follow shouldn't be interpreted as me having another grump.  Well, not entirely, anyway.

My criticisms are two-fold and specific:

First, that the theme of happiness is becoming too common in advertising endlines.

And second, that this idea is often expressed in an annoyingly ungrammatical way.

The first bone of contention can be chewed very quickly.  Telling consumers that a particular product will make them happy smacks of sheer laziness on the part of the planners involved; rather than coming up with a new, interesting angle, they settle for a simplistic and obvious approach which neither engages nor convinces.

This doesn't mean that no effort is involved; the suggested strategy is no doubt bolstered by the findings of a huge number of research groups and a PowerPoint presentation running to 100 slides or more.  But this doesn't mask the paucity of insight and thinking which has gone into the central message.

It's the poor grammar which really irks me, though.

The word 'happy' is an adjective.  Not a noun (I don't have 'a happy').  Nor an adverb (I don't 'walk happy' down the road).  But time and again, advertisers misuse the word - either oblivious to their mistake or deliberately making the endline jar in consumers' heads and (supposedly) making it more likely to stick.

Let's name a few names.

The earliest example of 'happy' in an endline that I've found is this American ad for Betty Crocker cake mix, dating from the late 1970s:




To be fair, there's nothing too irritating about the line 'Bake someone happy' - it's acceptable shorthand for 'Make someone happy through baking'.  It's the recent plethora of 'happy' lines which has got on my nerves...

In 2003, Norwich Union Direct (now Aviva) offered to 'quote you happy':



This sounded odd at the time, and still does - largely because having people in the ads saying 'Quote me happy' is so unrealistic.  Has anyone in the real world ever said that to an insurance company?

Then we had Wall's encouraging people to 'share happy':




Not 'share happiness', you notice.  (Even Coca-Cola is grammatically circumspect enough to invite us to 'Open happiness' rather than 'Open happy'.)

Perhaps Wall's has seen the error of its ways, altering its endline to 'Goodbye Serious' last year.  But there are plenty of other 'happy' companies around.

Carcraft, with 'Drive happy'




Nutella, with 'Spread the happy':




Rightmove, with 'Find your happy':




And Jacob's - makers of Cream Crackers amongst other savoury snacks - have been urging us to both 'snack happy'...




...and 'lunch happy':




I think you can see by now why I'm not happy.

 

Election talk

Several months ago on this blog (that's to say, in the last piece I posted - sorry about the gap), I said that I'd keep an eye out for key words and phrases during the General Election campaign.

Well, here we are on polling day - and there's been precious little of note to report.

There have been no stirring or memorable campaign slogans.  In fact, most of the messages have been so bland as to be interchangeable.

'A Better Plan.  A Better Future.'

'A Brighter, More Secure Future.'

'Opportunity for Everyone'

'For the Common Good.'

'Believe in Britain.'

For the record, those were the offerings of (in order) the Conservatives, Labour, Lib Dems, the Green party and UKIP.

The Lib Dems did use another line in their party political broadcasts which at least made it clear that they intended to occupy a centrist position ('Look left, look right, then cross'), but this had the disadvantage of being, well, just a bit lame.

It was left to a UKIP supporter to come up with the only eye-catching, if grammar-wrecking, slogan of the campaign.  (Actually it's been around for a while, but it's really done the rounds on social media in the last few weeks...)


There have been a few buzzwords around, largely coming from the Conservative Party.  They've talked a lot about 'hardworking families' - as opposed to lazy, coasting ones, presumably.  They've referred constantly to the prospect of Labour and the SNP working together as the 'coalition of chaos'.  (Why not 'chaolition'?)

And they've really gone to town with the word 'strong'.  Signs prominently bearing the word have been held up by supporters standing behind David Cameron whenever he's made a speech.  And after the televised leaders' debate, a host of Tories took to Twitter to acclaim his performance as 'strong' and 'commanding' - as the Huffington Post, among others, quickly realised.

Strangely, Nick Clegg - a known lover of the buzzword (who can forget the time when he kept going on about 'alarm clock Britain'?) - has held himself in check in the lead-up to the election.   He's repeated a Wizard of Oz-inspired line about giving the Tories a heart and Labour a brain in the event of a coalition with either of them, but that's about the limit of it.  Perhaps someone in the party has told him that his little phrases and jokes really annoy people.

If anything, it's visual language which has dominated the campaign.  George Osborne has rarely been seen without a hi-vis jacket on his back, presumably to show how in touch he is with working people.  (Sorry, 'hardworking families'.)  And David Cameron hasn't rolled down his shirt sleeves since some Tory backers complained that the campaign lacked passion and fight.

Meanwhile, Ed Miliband has looked directly into the TV cameras at every opportunity; he's evidently been told that this is the best way to connect with the electorate.  And he's had his election pledges engraved on a huge piece of stone, quickly and disparagingly tagged the 'EdStone'.

As far as the written word is concerned, the focus during this campaign has been on badly-written election leaflets.  An error-strewn effort from the local Lib Dems landed on our mat, and so appalled my wife that any chance of her voting for them evaporated immediately.  But it turns out that there have been howlers all over the country.

Like the one from a Conservative candidate called - hmm, is that really his name?


Or the Labour candidate who couldn't be bothered to spell out all his policies (picture from the Cambridge News):


But the best example of all has to be this UKIP leaflet which an English teacher decided to 'mark' with a red pen.  Her corrections were posted online and quickly went viral.


Do these spelling and grammar mistakes really matter?  Inasmuch as they suggest a slapdash attitude and an inattention to detail on the part of the candidate, I'd say they do.

Just a few hours now until we find out what the nation has to say about everyone's campaigns...

 

New Year, old stuff

This is probably going to be a bit of a bitty post, but hey ho...

First, a couple of new misheard lyrics to add to our collection.  Our son Harry recently gave a new twist to the Eurythmics' song There Must Be An Angel (Playing With My Heart).  He thought it was There Must Be A Ninja - and sang along particularly enthusiastically to the part which he thought was:

Must be talkin' to a ninja,
Must be talkin' to a ninja...

It's a plausible misinterpretation; after all, love could justifiably be compared to a stealthy, unseen force which takes you by surprise and flattens you.

Then we have Can't Fight the Moonlight by Leann Rimes, with a chorus which appears to begin:

You can try to resist,
Try to hide from my kids...

It's actually 'kiss' rather than 'kids', of course, but our misheard version does conjure up a vivid picture of a single mother with an unruly brood.

Some song reworkings are deliberate, though.  Over Christmas, Harry devised an updated version of Wham's Last Christmas:

Last Christmas I gave you my heart,
But the very next day, you sold it on eBay...

Perhaps I should offer his lyrical services to Will.i.am, responsible for the Worst Writing in a Song in 2014.  (That's an opinion rather than an official award, but it still deserves capital letters.)  In It's My Birthday, he suggests that:

The world don't matter,
Your problem don't matter...

What could it be that makes the weighty concerns of existence seem as nothing?  Don't get too excited, because you're likely to be underwhelmed by the answer:

'Cause we gon' get dum-de-dum-de-datta.

We could also add the lyrics to our list of ungrammatical lyrics (see way below), since they should read 'The world doesn't matter'.  And while we're at it, let's add the following from Deacon Blue:

Maybe now, baby
I'll do what I should have did
'Cause you're a real gone kid...

And this Bad Grammar from Usher's Good Kisser:

Don't nobody kiss it like you,
Don't nobody kiss it like you...

Don't nobody write 'em like they used to.

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"Was that the sound of a lark?" he wondered.  "Or perhaps a thrush?"
He strode on past the bluebells and buttercups in bloom, brushing aside the ferns and brambles along the way.  He was in search of conkers, but all he had found so far were acorns.
His father would have known how to spot a horse chestnut tree, but he was away on his allotment, tending his rhubarb and digging up turnips with his ox-strong arms.
He crossed a brook - and there they were, lying everywhere on the ground.  Like a young colt slipping its bridle, he dashed forward to pick them up.  They were no minnows; some were the size of apricots.
They were without the finest conkers in the county...

Now, we've looked before at words disappearing from the dictionary - here, to be precise - but this time the lexicographers at Oxford Dictionaries seem to have gone too far.

It's just been revealed that a lot of common (and largely nature-related) words have been quietly dropped from the Oxford Junior Dictionary since 2007.  So any young person reading the above passage and wishing to look up lark, thrush, bluebell, buttercup, bloom, fern, bramble, conker, acorn, horse chestnut, allotment, rhubarb, turnip, ox, brook, colt, bridle, minnow, apricot or county would be disappointed.

These, and many other common words, have been replaced by modern ones such as blog, broadband, MP3, cut and paste, voicemail, database, attachment and chatroom.  This is meant to reflect the fact that children today spend less time outside and more time on computers.

Clearly, dictionaries need to evolve all the time to reflect changes in language and society.  But surely there's an argument that if children are spending less time in contact with nature, it's all the more important to inform them about it.

Besides, many of the words which have been removed play a wider role in language in similes, metaphors and idioms, which even young children are likely to encounter.  As prickly as a porcupine, he ferreted around, great oaks from little acorns grow, for example.

But many better writers than me have made the case.  Here is a letter signed by the likes of Margaret Atwood, Michael Morpurgo and Sir Andrew Motion.

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That phrase 'in a generation' (covered on this blog as long ago as 2011) shows no sign of declining in use, unfortunately.  If anything, it's increasing - and things are likely to get worse with the impending General Election, which Ed Miliband has already described as being 'the most important in a generation'.

I'll try to keep an eye on this, and other repeated phrases and slogans, as we near voting day.

 

Cheerio to cheerio?

Once again (which I say because this happened not so long ago), a list of words deemed to be old-fashioned and moribund has been published.

This time, it's a study by Lancaster University and the Cambridge University Press.  And whereas I was left unmoved by the removal of kench, quagswagging and drysalter from the Collins English Dictionary a couple of years ago, I'm now slightly alarmed to see that a number of words I use are on the list.

'Marvellous' is something I say a lot, though admittedly it's generally muttered under my breath in an ironic way.  Then there's cheerio, fortnight, fetch and catalogue.

My wife thinks this is yet another sign that I'm old and out of touch, but I reckon the study is fundamentally flawed.  The researchers clearly didn't speak to enough football fans.

You can hear thousands of supporters chanting 'cheerio, cheerio' whenever one of the opposing team is sent off.  The fact that home matches are usually two weeks apart means that fans are very likely to say 'See you in a fortnight' to each other at the final whistle.

A goal is often said to result from a catalogue of errors by the defending team, as I know from watching Norwich last season.  And now that City are enjoying a good start to the new season, I'm much more likely to say 'I'm going to fetch a paper' to read the match report.

The study claims that these words are being replaced by ones from digital technology and from American culture.  But am I going to start saying 'awesome' instead of 'marvellous'?

#fatchance

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The road painters who can't spell have been at it again.  Remember the fire station with the road markings telling people to 'Keep Klear'?

Here's where you can get a bus in Bristol...


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More picture news.  I recently received this email from Tesco:

School Shop
Getting your kid's back to school can be stressful. We're here to help.
Shop now />

'Stationary'?  With an 'a'?  Someone definitely needs to go back to school.

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And one more picture while I'm at it.  It's not a spelling mistake, but it seems wrong all the same:

 

(Pic: Wikipedia)


England's Glory, made in Sweden?  About as likely as the England football team achieving glory under Sven-Goran Eriksson.

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And finally for now:

With Kate Bush performing on stage again after a 35-year break, my wife has been playing her music in the house a lot lately.  Not that this has been popular with everyone.

'Oh no,' said our son as he came into the living room the other day.  'Not Warbling Heights again.'

 

Yes reader, I'm back!

Good grief, has it really been that long since I wrote a blog post?  I should really make amends by writing a lengthy piece of depth and substance, but I'm afraid I only have a few light titbits for you...

 

First, an alarming comment made by our son Harry during this summer's World Cup.  During a kickabout in the garden one afternoon, I'd shielded the ball from him by exaggeratedly sticking out my ample backside in his direction.  I didn't think anything more of it until we were watching a game on TV a couple of days later and a defender used the same method to ward off a striker.


"Look, Dad!" Harry exclaimed loudly.  "He's bumming him off like you did to me in the garden!"

Thank goodness we weren't in a public place watching the game.

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In the same anatomical area, I think the prize for the best competitor's name at the Commonwealth Games has to go to India's Sushila Likmabam.

Not that I would dare snigger about it to her face, though.  She won a silver in the judo competition.
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And still at that end of the body, here's a notice which recently appeared in the window of a Tesco store in East London.  Best malapropism I've seen for a long while:

 



(Pic: @sparkigol)

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A brief family visit to Amsterdam last week revealed almost as many amusing local names as we generally see in France.

We saw an ad for a theme park called Plopsaland, which will have to change its name if the owners ever decide to set up another one in Britain.  Plopsaland just sounds a bit, well, you know.

We noticed a clothing store called Sissy-Boy and a clothing range called Acne (also available in London, I've since discovered).  I assume the latter must be targeting the teenage market.

And during a canal trip, a large neon sign reading 'Top Koks' was spotted.  Turns out it's not advertising a gay bar, but an employment agency for cooks.

More soon, promise...

 

And the winner isn't...

Another awards ceremony, another chance to practise my magnanimous smile when someone else wins.  (Not that the EDF Energy East of England Media Awards were being broadcast live on TV, but I didn't want to appear a bad loser in front of the other people at my table.)

I was shortlisted in the Columnist of the Year category for the articles I write for the MyFootballWriter site:










Still, at least I got a free meal out of it.  (Though it did cost me £32 on the train to get there to eat it.)  And it was worth turning up to hear the representative from the sponsoring company introduce the guest of honour as a 'Paralympic gold mentalist'.

I do enjoy a good malapropism.  Recently a colleague of my wife was talking to a visitor about the local area; yes, it is largely affluent, she remarked - but there are 'pockets of depravity'...

Similarly, I couldn't help laughing when testing our 10-year-old daughter on new vocabulary the other day.  "What does 'besom' mean?" I asked.  "Is it something to do with a naked lady?" she replied.

It didn't help when she asked me to give her a sentence using the word in context and I came up with:

'The witch went to the cupboard and got her besoms out.'

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Back in January 2011, I wrote this blog entry about hilariously incorrect subtitles on TV.

A couple of weeks ago, there was a great new example to add to the list.  BBC News announced at the Chinese New Year that this is the year of the horse:


 

F***ing h***

I knew this day would come, just not yet...

Last Thursday, at the end of the school day, our seven-year-old son's teacher gave me the finger.  No, not like that - I mean that she gave me that 'come here' gesture dreaded by all parents doing the school pick-up, accompanied by a mouthed 'Could I have a word?'

After I'd trudged into the classroom, as sheepishly as though I'd done something wrong myself, she told me that Harry was in big trouble for using the f-word at playtime.

'Where on earth has he learned language like that?' I exclaimed.

'He says he got it from you,' she said.  (Maybe I had done something wrong myself...)

'That's ridiculous,' I said - and though her expression suggested that she didn't believe me, I really couldn't think of an occasion when he might have heard me use the word.  I've been so careful; I never assemble flat-pack furniture or do any decorating when he's in the house.

As you can imagine, it wasn't a bundle of laughs in the car on the way home.  When we got back, Harry ran straight up to his room in floods of tears.

I was just about to text his mother to tell her what he'd done when the phone rang.  It was Harry's teacher again.

Apparently, after we'd left, she'd spoken to a couple of Harry's classmates about the incident - and they confirmed that he'd used 'one of the f-words'.

'One of'?

To her credit, she picked up on this and questioned them further.  It didn't take long to establish that what he'd actually said was 'flipping heck'.

Much relief all round - not least on my part, since I would no longer have to defend myself to my wife against Harry's claim that he'd picked up the 'other' f-word from me.

Mind you, she still told me that I shouldn't say 'flipping heck' in front of him, even though I think this is remarkably restrained.

And she's said worse in front of the kids.

A few weeks ago, our daughter kept trying to get Harry into trouble - and I finally told her not to be such a tell-tale tit.

'Mum, Mum, Dad said the t-word!' she said, now trying to get me into trouble.

'"Twat"?' said my wife.

 

Ad break

I guess most copywriters have an ad in their past which still haunts them; an ad which still makes them shudder when they think of it and which (if they're unlucky) is still used by others in the know to beat or blackmail them.

This is mine.

Years ago, I was working for an agency that was pitching for a chain of low-cost family restaurants.  I wasn't involved in the initial pitch, but eventually I was dragged into the process.

The situation was this: the prospective client liked the agency and wanted to give us the account, but felt unable to do so until they saw a TV script they could buy.  Different teams wrote different scripts over a two-week period, but all were turned down - largely because they didn't make a big enough hero of the large bear that was the brand character.  We reached a crucial moment; if a buyable script were not presented soon, the client would walk away.

The account director working on the pitch came and asked me to have a go.  'Just write whatever it takes to get the account,' he said.  'Something they can't turn down.  It doesn't have to be pretty.'

Helpful soul that I am, I had a go.  And the result was a script featuring a rapping bear, who delivered the brand strategy, key proposition and anything else on the brief that would fit into the rhyming lyrics.  The client couldn't not buy it.

The account duly secured, the agency celebrated and my stock rose considerably.  Hurrah!

But then things started to go wrong.  First my art director Mick returned from holiday and read the script I'd written.  He was horrified.  I explained the situation and the reasons I'd written what I'd written.  He considered my argument.  And was still horrified.

Then - and this was the worst thing - we had to make the ad.  The simplest way to convey the result would be to provide a link to the finished commercial, but (thank God) no one has yet posted it on YouTube and I don't have a copy.  Suffice to say that it was everything the script promised it would be - only more badly edited, thanks to the client's involvement.

Surprisingly (and this doesn't reflect well on the public either), the ad achieved a huge boost in brand awareness and custom went up.  The account director said whenever he looked at the figures, he wanted to punch the air.  Mick said whenever he looked at the ad, he wanted to punch me.

And to this day, whenever Mick goes on holiday, he still warns me that there had better be no scripts featuring rapping wildlife in existence when he gets back.

Why am I bringing all this up now?  Well, take a look at this new spot for Muller Rice...




I brought this up with Mick.  'Do you think it's possible we were ten years ahead of our time?' I suggested.

The short, expletive-free version of his response was 'no'.

_________________________________________________

While I'm talking about bad ads:

A while ago, I posted about a particular radio commercial for the payday lender Wonga.  I'm pleased to report that the Advertising Standards Authority agrees with me - even if it's taken them a year to come to that view.

 

From French accents to literary genitalia

Hello and welcome to the semiannual post on the 'Talking Scribble' blog.   (OK, so the posts aren't supposed to be that far apart, but that's the way it seems to be going at the moment.)

My failure to update this blog regularly isn't down to a lack of things to highlight and discuss.   During the summer, for example, the latest additions to the Oxford English Dictionary were revealed.   I could and should have posted my suspicions that I am being individually targetted by the OED, given that 'dad dancing', 'geekery', 'hand-wringer' and 'knobhead' have now been included.

But I'm afraid my new media silence is down to a combination of sloth (still my deadly sin of choice), a heavy workload and moving house.   Apologies to both of my regular readers.

Anyway, here's a round-up of linguistic observations from the last few months:

●  Proof that a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing.   At a Center Parcs in France, I overheard a British woman trying to buy some ready salted crisps from a bar.   To her credit, she tried to do it in French and started off quite well...

Woman:   Er... des... er... chips?
Barman: Des chips, oui.

So far, so good (since the French word for crisps is indeed 'chips').   But then the barman asked what flavour she would like.

Woman:   Er... sales, s'il vous plaît.
Barman:   Salés, madame, des chips salés...

Instead of asking for salted crisps, she'd asked for dirty ones.   What a difference an accent can make.

●  Still in France, I found myself watching a TV show called 'The Best' one evening. It was a 'France's Got Talent' sort of show, except that most of the acts weren't French and a fair proportion had no talent.

Anyway, the final act on the programme was a French streetdance outfit who had evidently tried to come up with a gritty name in English.   Something like 'Wicked Crew', for example.

Unfortunately, this is what they'd chosen:



●  What's in a name?   Hmm...

It appears that the advertising media company Group M has a new Chief Operating Officer:   www.campaignlive.co.uk/news/1194483/Ruud-Wanck-promoted-Group-M

It will, I trust, be a hands-on role.

●   My wife's been complaining recently of a ringing sound in her ears.   'I hope this isn't the start of tinnitus,' she said.

I started sniggering, which not surprisingly didn't go down well.   But it wasn't out of meanness; I was remembering how my mother always used to get the word wrong.

More than once she told me that a friend of hers was suffering from tittiness.

●   I've noticed a number of misspelled posters and signs lately.   Some, like the Car Giant ad boasting of 'thousand's of cars' are presumably just slips caused by poor grammar and/or a lack of attention.

But I couldn't help wondering whether one was deliberate.   The route map I saw in a South West Trains carriage the other day featured 'Cystal Palace'.   Could a supporter of a rival club be responsible?

●   As mentioned, we moved house recently.   Not far away from our new home are the offices of a company called Schindler.

'What do they do?' asked our daughter.   'I don't know,' I replied, 'I'll look them up.'

And I did.   Turns out they make... lifts.

Yep.   Schindler's lift.

●  We're also quite close to the local leisure centre, and I went along to join up.  Apparently I'm old enough to join a swimming session called 'Young at Heart'.

How depressing is that?  How old does that phrase make me feel?

And besides, I have never, ever been young at heart.

●  Finally, the literary genitalia mentioned in the title of this post.

I was getting changed for swimming in a family cubicle with our (then) six-year-old son at Center Parcs when he suddenly burst out laughing.  'Dad,' he said, 'your willy looks like Mrs Twit in the Roald Dahl book!'

Here, for your reference, is what Mrs Twit looks like:


My wife says that if you squint at the picture a bit, you can see what he means.  Hmph.


And on that note, I think we'll bring this post to a quick end.  See you all again next March.  (OK, I'll try to update the blog before then...)

 

Newsflash: I'm not dead!

Right, now where was I?

It's been a very long time since my last post on this blog.  In fact, I only realised how long in our local Sainsbury's last Saturday.  I overheard two men discussing a third party:

'Yes, he's the top man there,' one of them said.  'He really rules the rooster.'

'Rules the rooster!' I thought with delight.  'I must mention that on the... oh, bloody hell.'

So here I am again.  But where to start?

Perhaps with a recommendation for some of the best writing I've come across in ages: The Heist by Macklemore and Ryan Lewis.

Yes - I, a 52-year-old man living in a quiet, leafy suburb of London, am recommending an American rap album.  I wouldn't have thought it likely either - but the lyrics are some of the cleverest, funniest, most intelligent and moving I've heard in a long time.

 

Thrift Shop is currently their best-known track in the UK, and the one that brought them to my attention.  How can you not love a song which starts with the hilarious swagger of:


Walk up to the club, like 'What up, I got a big c*ck!'

Same Love, a track in support of gay marriage (which immediately distances it from the homophobia often associated with the genre), highlights the misguidedness of those who think that homosexuality is a condition which can be 'cured':

The right wing conservatives think it's a decision
And you can be cured with some treatment and religion,
Man-made rewiring of a predisposition.
Playing God, oh no, here we go:
America the Brave still fears what we don't know.
And 'God loves all his children' is somehow forgotten
But we paraphrase a book written thirty-five hundred years ago…

 

And Jimmy Iovine captures perfectly the vacuous flattery of a record company executive:

He said: 'We've been watching you, so glad you could make it.
Your music, it's so impressive in this whole brand you created
You're one hell of a band, we here think you're destined for greatness
And with that right song we all know that you're next to be famous.
Now I'm sorry, I've had a long day - remind me now what your name is?'

There's similar verbal dexterity throughout the whole album.  My only regret is that the frequent use of expletives makes it unsuitable for playing when our two young children are around.  That's not a criticism of the lyrics, you understand - the kids just aren't ready for that language yet.  When they're a bit older, I'll have no hesitation in urging them to give the album a listen, though a recommendation from their untrendy dad is probably more likely to put them off.

 

In any case, I'm currently trying to tackle other language issues with our six-year-old son Harry.  Although very articulate, he uses nonsense words in conversation a lot.  For example, when asked what he'd like for breakfast, he's as likely to say 'Shred-shred pleeeedd!' as 'Shreddies please'.  Asked if he'd like some waffles as well, the answer is as likely to be 'cooty-coo' as 'two'.

 

Occasionally he'll stumble unknowingly upon a rude word.  The other day, instead of expressing a desire to go the the park, he said he wanted to go to the 'wank'.  Ahem.

I don't know why he's doing this.  It may be a silly stage he's going through.  He may be experimenting with words and sounds for fun.  One reason is certainly that he's discovered that it winds me up and it entertains him to see steam emerge from my ears.
 

I just hope it doesn't last; I once worked with someone who was still talking nonsense in his forties.  One day he came into the office complaining that the traffic had been particularly heavy in the vicinity of Blackstock Road - though he expressed this as: 'Blimey, it was chock-a-blocky round Blacky'.

Still, Harry did make my day recently with just one simple two-letter word.  Read this to find out what it was.
 

Right, that'll do for now, I think.  I'll try not to leave it so long before the next post.  Byesy-byesy.  (Damn, I'm doing it now.)

 

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