This page covers anything related to language, from the way it's used to the way it's abused. As always, the main accent will be on humour but you'll also find the occasional piece of poetry, or prose, highlighting the wonderful ways it can be used to move and convey feeling. Contributions always welcome.
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Animated Version of Guy Boas' Poem The Vet First Published in a Punch Anthology in 1935.
Click on the arrow to play and make sure the volume's on.
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The Queen's English and words that 'snuck' into our 'skedule'.
Americanisation of the English language
Writer Matthew Engel recently declared war on the Americanisms that are ruining the version of English we,the inhabitants of our islands, have used for years. We have become so overwhelmed by everything American that the British now have trouble differentiating between our form of English and theirs. I have problems with it myself from time to time, especially in those moments when you know what you are saying and writing is correct as you've said and written the same things over and over again for years, but doubt creeps in because you've seen the American version used so often.
Top of the hate-list of Americanisms that infuriate is probably 'Can I get a coffee?', closely followed by 'I'm good' as opposed to 'I'm very well, thank you', 'snuck' as the past tense of 'sneak', 'dove' as the past tense of 'dive', 'driver's license' instead of 'driving licence', 'overly' rather than 'over', 'autopsy' for 'post-mortem', 'burglarized' instead of 'burgled', 'fries' for 'chips', 'chips' for 'crisps', and 'elevator' for 'lift'.
Why have some of us suddenly started asking for a coffee 'to go' instead of 'take away'? Our 'chemists' are slowly becoming 'pharmacies', 'aeroplanes' are being called 'airplanes'. The word 'gotten' is making a comeback; it may be have been used in Scotland a century and more ago, but it's an ugly word and we must prevent its return. Please don't ever ask me to 'touch base' or that I'm 'on' the team this weekend. I'm happy to meet up with you though, hopefully, when I'm 'in' the team.
My other personal hates are peole who call everyone, irrespective of sex, 'guys' and the verbalisation of nouns, as in 'incentivizing'. One writer to the Daily Mail remembers working for an American company that decided to 'sunset' a department!
It's not a question of our language being better than the American version, but it is different, distinctive, and ours. And remember, there is no 'k' in 'schedule'.
English like what it is spoke
The actor Roger Moore feels that the way he speaks is actually a handicap for anyone trying to become an actor today. He says he loves local accents but, like me, believes that in film and television, the obsession with them makes life difficult for those of us who don't live in the same region as the speaker. There's one particularly irritating Geordie continuity announcer on Channel 4 at the moment. Unfortunately, 'Received Pronunciation' has become unfashionable but I defy anyone not to be able to understand clearly spoke, Queen's English, wherever they come from. As Roger Moore says,
"It communicates thought in the shortest possible time and in the clearest possible way, and we shouldn't be ashamed of it".
Dialects
It can be difficult to understand some regional dialects and they can cause confusion. The Yorkshire dialect is a case in point -
A Yorkshireman takes his cat to the Vet's and says to him,
"Aye up, lad, I need to talk to thee abhat me cat." The Vet asks, "Is it a Tom?"
"Nay," the man says, "I've browt it we' us."
Another Yorkshireman's dog dies and he decides to have a gold statue made to remember the dog by. He asks the jeweller,
"Can tha mek us a gold statue of yon dog?"
"Do you want it 18 carat?", asks the jeweller.
"No, I want it chewin' a bone yer daft begger!"
A third Yorkshireman's wife dies and he decides to have "She were Thine' engraved on her headstone.
He calls a stonemason who tells him it will be ready a few days after the funeral. When he's finished it he calls the widower to tell him to come and take a look.
Whe the widower sees that it says 'She were Thin" he explodes in anger and says "Good grief man. You've left the flamin' 'e' out."
All apologetic, the stonemason tells him to return the following day when the mistake will have been rectified. When the man returns the following day he's told by the stonemason that he's now put the 'e' on the stone. The widower looks at it and reads out loud -
"E she were Thin."
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English to be the Official Language of the European Union
The European Commission has announced an agreement whereby English will be the official language of the European Union rather than German, which was the other possibility. As part of the negotiations, the British Goverment conceded that English spelling had some room for improvement and has accepted a 5-year phase-in plan that would become known as 'Euro-English'.
In the first year, 's' will replace the soft 'c'. Sertainly, this will make the sivil servants jump with joy. The hard 'c' will be dropped in favour of 'k'. This should klear up konfusion, and keyboards can have one less letter.
There will be growing publik enthusiasm in the sekond year when the troublesome 'ph' will be replaced with 'f'. This will make words like 'fotograf' 20% shorter.
In the third year, publik akseptanse of the new spelling kan be expekted to reach the stage where more komplikated changes are possible.
Governments will enkourage the removal of double letters which have always ben a deterent to akurate speling.
Also, al wil agre that the horibl mes of the silent 'e' in the languag is disgrasful and it should go away.
By the 4th yer people wil be reseptiv to steps such as replasing 'th' with 'z' and 'w' with 'v'.
During ye fivz yer, ze unesesary 'o' kan be dropd from vords containing 'ou' and after ziz fifz yer, ve vil hav a reil sensibl riten styl.
Zer vil be no mor trubl or difikultis and evryvun vil find it ezi to understand ech oza. Ze drem of a united urop vil finali kum tru.
Und efter ze fifz yer, ve vil al be speking German like zey vunted in ze forst plas.
How to speak if visiting Essex:-
For those of you planning a holiday in Essex, this is an invaluable guide to understanding what the locals are trying to tell you -
alma chizzit? - a request asking how much an item costs.
amant - Quantity; sum total ("Thez a yuge amant of mud in Saffend").
assband - Unable to leave the house because of illness or disability.
awss - A four legged animal, on which money is won or lost ("That awss ya tipped me cost me a fiver t'day").
branna - More brown than on a previous occasion ("Ere, Trace. Ya look branna t'day. Ya bin onna sunbed?").
cort a panda - a rather large hamburger.
dan in the maff - Unhappy ("Wossmatta, Trace? Ya look a bit dan in the maff").
eye-eels - Shoes favoured by Essex ladies. White is the prefered colour.
Furrock - The location of Lakeside Shopping Centre.
Ibeefa - Balearic holiday island.
lafarjik - Lacking in energy ("I feel all lafarjik" ).
paipa - The Sun, The Mirror or The Sport.
reband - The period of recovery and emotional turmoil after rejection by a boyfriend ("I could help it, I wuz on the reband from Wayne").
Saffend - Essex coastal resort boasting the longest pleasure pier in the world ('cept there ain't much left a it nah and it ain' t no pleasure).
tan - London. The 'big smoke'. Where everyone in Eastenders goes 'up ta'.
webbats? - Querying the location where something or someone is("Webbats me dole card, Trace?").
wonnid - Desired or needed. Wanted by the police ("es a wonnid man").
zaggerate - To suggest that something is bigger or better than it actually is ("I told you a fazzand times already").
Invictus
This poem, written in the 1870s by William Ernest Henley, is an inspiring poem about determination and worth remembering in those moments when we lapse into self-pity over matters that are really just trifles in the scheme of things. It was used by Nelson Mandela to endure his imprisonment. Henley wrote it whilst in hospital, facing the loss of both his legs. Having had one leg amputated after contracting tuberculosis at the age of 16, pioneering antiseptic treatment by Joseph Lister saved the other. Whilst in hospital he became friends with Robert Louis Stevenson who used him as the basis for Long John Silver in Treasure Island.
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
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The limited vocabulary of teenagers:-
A recent Government-funded survey has highlighted the limited vocabulary of today's teenager and the effect it is having on their employment prospects. Most of us could have told the Government this for nothing. The limited liguistic range of the average teenager includes many made up words and what has been dubbed 'teenspeak'. Much of ther blame lies with text messaging and social networking sites such as Facebook. Before the arrival of these, most teenagers developed a broad vocabulary but, youngsters now limit themselves to the use of a much smaller range because it is the accepted form of conversation in those age groups and in those areas that a large number of them spend much of their time. Unfortunately, it is a language the older generations don't understand or don't want to understand and, as they are the potential employers, use of that sort of language in interviews and employment applications is never (and rightly so) going to enable the applicant to be seen in a good light. Today's teenagers need to be made to understand that there is another, more formal and widely acceptable, language that has been in existence for years and will, hopefully, continue to remain so. We all know that the language we speak now has evolved over millennia and that localised dialects are in use but, in the main, there is one English language that the majority understand, and 'Textspeak' isn't it!
The Origins of Words and Sayings:-
Have you ever wondered where some of the phrases we use everyday have their origins? Here are explanations for some of them that started out life in the 15th century. There is no guarantee these explanations are true, but they could be....-
'Piss Poor' & 'Haven't got a pot to piss in':
Urine used to be used to tan animal skins, so, to make money, all the family used to pee in the same pot and when it was full they sold it to the tannery. If you had to do this to survive you were considered to be 'piss poor'. Worse off than these folk were those who couldn't even afford to buy the pot; they 'didn't even have a pot to pee in'.
'Don't throw the baby out with the bath water':
Baths consisted of a big tub filled with water. First one into the nice clean water was always the man of the house. Next came the sons and any other men, then the women and finally the children. Last into, what was by now dirty water, were the babies. The water was often so dirty there was the chance that you wouldn't see the baby and throw it out with the bath water. Hence the saying.
'It's Raining Cats and Dogs':
Houses had thick straw-thatched roofs, with no wood underneath. Small animals like cats, dogs, and of course mice, lived in the roof to keep warm. When it rained the straw became slippery and sometimes the animals would slip and fall off the roof. Hence 'it's raining cats and dogs'. This situation also led to the introduction of a canopy over the bed, attached to posts at each corner, that prevented any animals, bugs, or their droppings ending up in the bed. The four-poster bed was born.
'Dirt Poor':
Only the wealthy had something other than dirt on their floors. Those with dirt became known as 'Dirt poor'.
'Threshold':
The slate floors the wealthy had became wet and slippery when the rain and snow from outside was brought in on their boots. To keep their footing they spread 'thresh' (straw) on the floor. As they added more, much of it ended up outside the front door, so they placed a piece of wood in the the doorway to hold it back. They called it the 'threshold'.
'Bringing Home The Bacon':
Eating pork didn't happen too often for poorer families, because of the cost, so, when they could afford it, it was considered a sign of wealth that they were able to 'bring home the bacon'. To show off they hung the bacon up for everyone to see, and even cut off a little to share with guests, or 'Chew the fat' with them.
'Upper Crust':
Bread was divided according to status. Workers got the bottom of the loaf, which was often burnt, the family got the middle, and guests got to eat the top, or 'upper crust'.
'The Graveyard Shift' & 'Saved by the Bell':
The 15th century mortality rate was high and in some areas burial space was at a premium. To solve the problem graves were reused after the older coffins were dug up and the bones taken to the 'bonehouse'. Some of the coffins that had been exhumed were found to have scratch marks inside, so the belief was that a lot of people had been buried alive. In case it should happen again, they began tying a piece of string to wrist of the corpse and leading it up through the coffin to be attached to a bell on the surface. Someone was employed to sit in the graveyard all night to listen out for the sound of a bell. This became known as the 'Graveyard shift'.
The following piece, written by Lynne Truss, author of Eats Shoots and Leaves, appeared in The Daily Telegraph, and was brought to my attention by Stefan Bremner-Morris -
Why arnt childrun being tort how 2 rite?
I recently received this interesting example of written English. It is a letter to the customers of a hotel car park in Norfolk. The names have been changed, but not the text.
Dear Costumes,
Over the last few months there has been a few situations with the car park, so starting Wednesday 9th August the hotel be cracking down on security.
Every on who pay's for the car park will have a pass (see customer list) they must show this to reception to get a code if they forget there pass you will be asked you name and company. The reception team will have a copy of all the paying customers.
If you are a way or would like some one else to use your car park space you must give them your pass and let reception know as soon as posible the reception team will not accept any thing else not following the rules may result in paying £10.
Any Problems or Situations please do contact my self, Gary philips or Cherry brown on 01603 XXXXXX
Best Regards,
Anne Farnsbarns
Receptionist
Now, there are many enjoyable aspects to this letter; I recommend studying it quite carefully. I pass it on, however, not just because it's hilarious.
Since my book Eats, Shoots & Leaves was first published in 2003, a number of things have happened in my life. First, of course, my address has become familiar to every asses' milk delivery company in the land.
Second, I have learned how to tell the same joke (about a panda that goes into a bar) a million times and not grow so tired of it that I actually want to hang myself.
Third, I've had to explain, patiently, over and over, that my book was solely concerned with the wished-for survival of a system of marks that have traditionally aided the clarity of the written (or printed) word.
But the biggest development of all is that I've become the Designated Worrier for the English Language, to whom examples of ghastly English (such as the above) are sent in the hope that I will a) laugh; b) cry; and c) shout through a megaphone from a rooftop about the abysmal state of literacy, if possible while also holding hostages from the Department of Education and sporting an improbable superhero costume involving ill-fitting tights.
"Are things really so bad?" you ask. Well, yes. Yes, they are. Laugh? Cry? Quite frankly, I never stop.
Last year, only 71 per cent of girls and 56 per cent of boys aged 11 reached level four – the standard of writing expected for their age. School inspectors were themselves recently e-mailed some guidelines by Ofsted on the difference between "its" and "it's", and how to spell words such as (useful in the circumstances) "under-achieve".
"But what about all those lovely A-level results?" you object. Well, a few months ago, the Royal Literary Fund published a report, Writing Matters, that put those A-levels into perspective. Since 1999, the fund has been placing professional writers in universities, to work one-to-one with students on their writing skills, and their report was full of plain, staggering shock at the state of students' entry-level abilities.
From every angle, the same message arrived: students who are arriving at university, many with multiple A grades at A-level, simply don't know how to write. Many of them actually resent the idea that suddenly they are expected to be able to.
Consider this. "A student comes [to her seminar] almost empty-handed, having been unable to get beyond the opening paragraph of an essay that tries to answer how Nietzsche's The Birth of Tragedy and another text use myth to define the human condition. She doesn't know how to start, how to frame the opening sentence, and says that at school she wrote hardly any essays.
"She has downloaded, from a Google search of the term 'human condition', a dull quotation that lies at the top of her piece of paper like a boulder blocking a path. She is nearly in tears."
This young woman is, the report explains, an English Literature student at an "elite university". Evidently, 14 per cent of students at British universities drop out in the first term; the report suggests that the demands of essay-writing are a major cause.
Students seem not to know how to think their thoughts aloud, or to join them up to make an argument. Because that's what writing is, essentially: in the act of writing, a person finds the words that best express something he or she has understood, or – even better – is on the point of understanding.
It's a well-established fact that writing about something makes you understand it. In finding the right words (and rejecting the wrong ones), you channel and refine your thoughts.
Why isn't writing – not reading – given more prominence in schools? I really don't understand it.
At GCSE, students are apparently tested to quite a high level on their reading and analysis, yet their own abilities as users of language are tactfully glossed over, as if poor language skills were a kind of disability beyond the scope of education (like warts) that it would be simply cruel to point out. This is bizarre.
Writing is an essential mental discipline, not just one subject among other subjects. Writing equals understanding plus explaining – and surely understanding and explaining have been the two core aims of education throughout history. Surely, when people don't write their thoughts down, they don't really have any.
Now, I'm willing to accept that there have been all sorts of advances in the way students think. It's quite clear that an ability to find the words is no longer the principal measure of intelligence, so one has to accept that perhaps pupils now think more effectively in ways that I just don't automatically value because I'm hopelessly old-fashioned.
But at the same time, no one can argue that communication is an unimportant skill in today's world. This is, as everyone knows, the age of communication. We are almost never in a state when we're not on the phone, or sending a text, or doing both at once while answering an e-mail and typing a blog.
Suddenly, everyone's a writer. Twenty years ago, when trained secretaries still controlled the official output from offices, the majority of clerical people never touched a keyboard. Even in newspaper offices, typewriters weren't on every desk, but were shared something like one-between-five and were wheeled around on trolleys. Clever girls leaving university were advised not to learn how to type because it was a skill that traditionally put paid to glittering careers.
When the Guardian produced its famous April Fool's supplement in the late 1970s – inventing an island called San Serif, with its capital city Bodoni, and everything else a reference to typefaces such as Garamond or Baskerville – those clever Guardian chaps could be confident that most readers had only distantly heard the word "font". Nowadays, of course, every schoolchild selects Gill Sans Extra Bold or Century Schoolbook before getting down to hours of tapping at the PC in his bedroom.
Of course, it's true that substance is not always the main point of our modern outpouring of communications, and that this is quite normal when you look at the precedents. As a race, humans have always fallen madly in love with new methods of talking to each other. The penny post, the postcard, the telephone – all were massively over-subscribed at the start.
Look at the reverse of any old picture postcard and you'll find that the sender had absolutely nothing to say, but said it anyway because the card itself was the point. Similarly, when phone technology was a novelty, people phoned each other just to say: "Is that you?"
I grew up with an LP recording of Tony Hancock's The Radio Ham – and it was the same thing again: by the miracle of valves, aerials, and emergency shillings in the meter, Hancock was talking at midnight to people in Malaya and Tokyo, but all he could think to ask them was whether it was raining.
But the current collision of fabulous, girdle-round-the-earth technology and abysmal writing skills is doing one thing rather well: it is unfairly (but usefully) exposing the dreadful state of many people's written English. And it is no good to argue (as many try to do) that it doesn't really matter that people don't have old-fashioned writing skills if they can get across what they mean.
Maybe I was exposed to too much Lewis Carroll at an impressionable age, but that's the sort of paradoxical question that, quite frankly, makes me want to scream. The point is: what does a person "mean" if he or she doesn't say it?
There's a great line in Christopher Hampton's play The Philanthropist, revived last year in London. One character says, "You never understand what I'm trying to say." And her boyfriend says, thoughtfully, "That's probably true. On the other hand, I think I do understand what you do say."
No one just picks up the mechanics of writing, just as we don't pick up how to play the piano simply by listening to it. Theory, moreover, is no substitute for practice, or for learning through making mistakes.
For decades, there has been an ideological reluctance to point out mistakes in written work. Pointing out "errors" was seen as discouraging to children, as well as unacceptably judgmental. But, when you look at it, what a patronising attitude that is.
Don't kids have the right to know if they are getting something wrong? Then they can either have the pleasure of getting it right next time, or they can make an informed decision that, actually, they absolutely don't care. It is patronising not to correct someone who is supposed to be learning; in fact, it's quite a good idea occasionally to force people to confront the scale of their own ignorance.
It's not just people's self-esteem that's at stake, after all. It's the future of written English.
Is this an elitist point of view? No, it's quite the opposite. To me, it's very simple: being good at English means you've been taught well. The idea that "correct" or standard English belongs only to rich and privileged people is preposterous from every angle.
The English language doesn't belong to anybody: it certainly doesn't trickle down from the top. Mark Twain said it brilliantly 100 years ago: "There is no such thing as the Queen's English. The property has gone into the hands of a joint stock company, and we own the bulk of the shares."
The more widely the techniques of written language are taught, the more democratic they plainly are. Nor does the "elitist" argument stand up to any empirical test, in any case. Posh people have been noted throughout history for their limited word power. The true objection, actually, when you think about it, is to people appearing "educated". Which, in the context of the aims of education, is absurd.
Believe it or not, I'm writing this article in order to plug a new book. And the book is not remotely polemical: it's just an illustrated children's book that shows – through a series of paired illustrations – how commas "make a difference". It shows "Go, get him doctors" (child has fallen from climbing frame; other kids are dithering), and "Go get him, doctors!" (child gleefully escaping from hospital, pushing another kid in a wheelchair).
It is not a grammar lesson. It doesn't explain about commas in lists, or commas before direct speech, or even (heaven help us) the choices to be made about the Oxford variety. And it isn't about "poor" punctuation. The sole purpose of the book is to make kids notice commas and enjoy the experience.
"I've finally decided to cheer up, everybody!" becomes "I've finally decided to cheer up everybody." "No cats, thank you" becomes "No cats thank you." It just shows that language is potentially ambiguous, and that it's very easy to say something different from what you intend.
"Becky walked on, her head a little higher than usual" becomes "Becky walked on her head, a little higher than usual." The sub-title is "Why, commas really do make a difference" – which is itself, you see, a different sentence if you take the comma out.
I suppose I have personal reasons for caring so much about all this. First, I appreciate how much literacy has done for me, and how much it's done for millions of other people from working-class families.
Second, and slightly less seriously, I am a Gemini, with Mercury as my ruling planet, and of course there is no direct connection, in fact I can't imagine why I mentioned it, but I do care very much about effective communication – enough to have nightmares, for example, about not being able to dial a number, or reach someone by phone.
I cringe to see people fight when talking would settle a misunderstanding. I never get more than 10 minutes into horror films because it's enough for me when they just say, "That's odd. The phone's dead."
To me, the most horrific moment in all literature comes when Tess, in Tess of the d'Urbervilles, slips that confessional note under Angel Clare's door and it goes under a rug so he doesn't see it. The next morning, she thinks she's told him all about the illegitimate baby and that he's forgiven her; in fact, he doesn't know a thing about it and gets really quite narked later on when he learns the truth.
But I feel strongly on this issue also, in part, because of the reaction to Eats, Shoots & Leaves – which was very, very interesting. Obviously, the positive reaction to the book has encouraged a lot of people to think that a love of English is very much alive and well. But the hostile reactions were even more telling, it seems to me, because they came generally from educated people who would, for themselves, never dream of writing a bad sentence.
My critics are people who speak well and write well, who started off with privileges that they think it's their moral duty to deny to others. "Relax, you don't need to know how to write," is the message. "Remember, only snobbish people care about such things."
An English teacher told me recently that, 20 years ago, she had a class that really wanted to do some sentence-parsing, and she had to say, "All right. But if anyone comes in, we're doing comics." I sometimes can't help thinking that what some people really resented about Eats, Shoots & Leaves (apart from the cash and the asses' milk, of course, which goes without saying) was that, by laying out some simple rules of English in an inexpensive and accessible book, I somehow revealed a trade secret to the masses.
What has become pretty clear to me is that English language as a subject should be elevated to a far higher status within the education system, and have at least four GCSEs attached to it, so that it can at least be on a par with "media". As far as I'm concerned, writing, in relation to other curriculum subjects, is like breathing in relation to other bodily functions: you may have a fabulous set of kidneys going there, chum, but if you're not breathing, forget it.
It's high time we insisted that the issue of literacy has nothing to do with class, and that it just cannot be bad for a person to be able to express himself in his own language. People need to know how their language works; they have a right to know how their language works; and they evidently bought my book because they were actually quite frustrated not knowing how their language worked.
According to the Royal Literary Fund report, students at university level find writing difficult and unpleasant. Which is a great irony, when you consider that one of the official reasons for dropping grammar from the curriculum was that anxiety about rules stifled the enjoyment and exuberance people were thought to bring naturally towriting.
Finally, if one has to see this issue in class terms, then we should look at it from quite the other way round. Literacy is historically the engine of social mobility: to downgrade literacy is actively to deprive many people of a chance in life. Decades of well-intentioned relativism have done nothing to bring about a more equal society. In fact, the result is that, more than ever before, it's only children from the most privileged homes – who go to the most expensive schools – who are equipped, by their language skills, to get all the best jobs and run the country.
It seems to me that, since the English language self-evidently belongs to everyone who speaks it, if people can't express themselves in writing, they have been deprived not just of a life skill but of their birthright. And in an age of fabulous, unprecedentedly fast and convenient means of written communications, it is actually criminal – not funny, not sad, but criminal – that so many people can't string a sentence together.
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As promised a little while ago, I'm going to be including on this page extracts from Douglas Adam's and John Lloyd's book, The Meaning of Liff. In the preface to the book they describe it thus -
"In Life (and indeed in Liff) there are many hundreds of common experiences, feelings, situations and even objects which we all know and recognise, but for which no words exist. On the other hand the world is littered with thousands of spare words which spend their time doing nothing but loafing about on signposts pointing at places. Our job, as we see it, is to get these words down off the signposts and into the mouths of babes and sucklings and so on, where they can start earning their keep in everyday conversation and make a more positive contribution to society."
Just remember these are all actual place names:-
A
AASLEAGH (n.) - A liqueur made only for drinking at the end of a revoltingly long bottle party when all the drinkable drink has been drunk.
ABERBEEG (vb.) - Of amateur actors, to adopt a Mexican accent when called upon to play any variety of foreigner, except Pakistanis, for whom a Welsh accent is considered sufficient.
ABERCRAVE (vb.) - To strongly desire to swing from the pole on the rear footplate of a bus. (Editor Foulsham's Note: Whilst the desire may still remain, the ability to do so no longer does since the withdrawal from service of such buses and their replacement by those of a bendy, single deck or cattle truck nature designed to insure you don't live long enough to be able to use your free bus pass.)
ABERYSTWYTH (n.) - A nostalgic yearning which is in itself more pleasant than the thing being yearned for.
ABILENE (adj.) - Descriptive of the pleasing coolness on the reverse side of the pillow.
ABINGER (n.) - One who washes up everything except the frying pan, the cheese grater and the saucepan which the chocolate sauce has been made in. (Editor Foulsham's Note: Today this can be just as easily applied to the same person who, because they have moved with the times, now throws all those things into the dishwasher without scraping the bits off first.)
ACLE (n.) - The rogue pin which shirtmakers conceal in the most improbable fold of a new shirt. It's function being to stab you when you don the garment.
ADLESTROP (n.) - That part of a suitcase that is designed to get snarled up on conveyor belts at airports. Some of the more modern adlestrop designs have a special "quick release" feature which enables the case to flip open at this point and fling your underclothes and nothing else, into the conveyor belt's gearing mechanism.)
AFFPUDDLE (n.) - A puddle which is hidden under a pivoted paving stone. You only know it's there when you step on the paving stone and the puddle shoots up your leg.
AGGLETHORPE (n.) - A dispute between two pooves in a boutique.
QUEENZIEBURN (n.) - Something that happens when people make it up after an Agglethorpe.
AHENNY (adj.) - The way people stand when examining other people's bokshelves.
ANDERBY QUERNHOW (n.) - One who continually bemoans the 'loss' of the word 'gay' to the English language, even though they had never used the word in any context at all until they started complaining that they couldn't use it any more.
ANDERBY STEEPLE (n.) - One who asks you a question with the apparent motive of wanting to hear your answer, but who cuts short your opening sentence by leaning forward and saying "and I'll tell you why I ask..." and then talking solidly for the next hour.
AINSWORTH (n.) - The length of time it takes to get served in a camera shop. Hence, also, how long we will have to wait for the abolition of income tax or the Second Coming.
AIRD OF SLEAT (n.archaic) - Ancient Scottish curse placed from afar on the stretch of land now occupied by Heathrow Airport.
AITH (n.) - The single bristle that sticks out sideways on a cheap paintbrush.
ALBUQUERQUE (n.) - A shapeless squiggle which is utterly unlike your normal signature, but which is, nevertheless, all you are able to produce when asked formally to identify yourself. Muslims, whose religion forbids the making of graven images, use albuquerques to decorate their towels, menu cards and pyjamas.
ALDCLUNE (n.) - One who collects ten-year-old telephone directories.
AMBLESIDE (n.) - The Facts of Life talk given by a father to his son whilst walking in the garden on a Sunday afternoon.
AMERSHAM (n.) - The sneeze which tickles but never comes. Thought to derive from the Metropolitan Line Tube station of the same name where the rails always rattle but the train never arrives.
AMLWCH (n.) - A British Rail sandwich which has been kept soft by being regularly washed and resealed in clingfilm.
ARDCRONY (n.) - A remote acquaintance passed off as "a very good friend of mine" by someone trying to impress people.
ARDSLIGNISH (adj.) - Adjective which describes the behaviour of Sellotape when you are tired.
AYNHO (vb.) Of waiters, never to have a pen.
B
BABWORTH (n.) Something which justifies having a really good cry.
BANFF (adj.) Pertaining to, or descriptive of, that kind of facial expression which is impossible to achieve except when posing for a passport photo.
BARSTIBLEY (n.) A humorous device such as a small, naked porcelain infant which jocular hosts use to add water to your whisky with via his willie.
BAUMBER (n.) A fitted, elasticated bottom sheet which turns your mattress banana-shaped.
BEAULIEU HILL (n.) The optimum vantage point from which to view people undressing in the bedroom across the street.
BECCLES (pl.n.) The small bone buttons placed in bacon sandwiches by unemployed guerilla dentists.
BEDFONT (n.) A lurching sensation in the pit of the stomach experienced at breakfast in a hotel, occasioned by the realisation that it is about now that the chambermaid will have discovered the embarrassing stain on your bottom sheet.
BELPER (n.) A lump of someone else's chewing gum which you unexpectedly find your hand resting on under a desk top, under the passenger seat of a car, under a bus seat or on somebody's thigh under their skirt.
BENBURB (n.) The sort of man who becomes a returning officer.
BEREPPER (n.) The irrevocable and sturdy fart released in the presence of royalty, which sounds quite like a small motorbike passing by (but not enough to be confused with one).
BERRY POMEROY (n.) Either the shape of a gourmet's lips or the droplet of saliva which hangs from them.
BISHOPS CAUNDLE (n.) An opening gambit before a game of chess whereby any missing pieces are replaced by small ornaments from the mantlepiece.
BLITHBURY (n.) The look someone gives you by which you become aware that they are much too drunk to have understood anything you've said to them in the last twenty minutes.
BODMIN (n.) The irrational and inevitable discrepancy between the amount pooled and the amount needed when a large group of people try to pay a bill together after a meal.
BOLSOVER (n.) One of those brown plastic trays with bumps on, placed upside down in boxes of chocolates to make you think you're getting two layers.
BONKLE (n.) Of plumbing in hotels, to make loud and unexplained noises in the night.
BOOLTEENS (pl.n.) The small foreign coins and English 1p pieces that inhabit dressing and bedside tables. Since they are never used and never thrown away boolteens account for a significant drain on the world's money supply.
BOOTHBY GRAFFOE(n.) The man in the pub who slaps people on the back as if they were old friends, when in fact he has no friends on account of this habit.
BOSCASTLE (n.) The huge pyramid of tin cans placed just inside the supermarket entrance.
BOSEMAN (n.) One who spends all day lurking near pedestrian crossings looking as if he's about to cross.
BOTLEY (n.) The prominent stain on a man's trouser crotch seen on his return from the lavatory.
BOTOLPHS (n.) Huge benign tumours which Archdeacons and old chemistry teachers affect to wear on the sides of their noses.
BRADFORD (n.) A school teacher's old, hairy jacket, now severly discoloured by chalk dust, ink, egg and the precipitations of unedifying chemical reactions.
BROATS (pl.n.) A pair of trousers with a career behind them. Most commonly seen on elderly retired Army officers, they were originally part of their best suit back in the thirties then became demoted and were used for gardening in the fifties. (Editor Foulsham's Note: Recently, due to the economic downturn, they have been brought out of retirement and re-instated as part of the best suit again.)
BROMPTON (n.) That which is sadi to have been committed when you are convinced you are about to blow off with a resounding trumpeting noise in a public place and all that actually slips out is a tiny 'pfpt'.
BROMSGROVE (n.) Any urban environment containing a small amount of dog turd and about forty-five tons of bent steel pylon or a lump of concrete with holes claiming to be a sculpture.
BROUGH SOWERBY (n.) One who has been working at the same desk in the same office for 15+ years and has very much his own ideas about why he has been continually passed over for promotion.
BRYMBO (n.) The single unappetising bun left in a baker's shop after 4pm.
BURBAGE (n.) The sound made by a liftful of people all trying to breathe politely through their noses.
BURES (n. medical) The scabs on knees and elbows formed by a compulsion to make love on cheap Ikea floor-matting. (Editor Foulsham's Note: The floor-matting was originally attributed to Habitat but as I've still got one plate remaining form a Habitat dinner service bought for us as a wedding present 28 years ago, I'm reluctant to tarnish their name. Who, apart from me, remembers Habitat anyway?)
BURLINGJOBB (n.archaic) A seventeenth century crime by which excrement is thrown into the street from a ground-floor window.
BURSLEDON (n.) The bluebottle one is too tired to get up and swat but not tired enough to sleep through.
BURTON COGGLES (pl.n.) A bunch of keys found in a drawer whose purpose has long been forgotten, and which can therefore now only be used for dropping down people's backs as a cure for nosebleeds.
C
CAIRNPAT (n.) A large piece of dried dung found in mountainous terrain above the cowline which leads the experienced tracker to believe that hikers have recently passed.
CAMER (n.) A mis-tossed caber.
CHENIES (pl.n.) The last few pieces of last Christmas's decorations you notice on the ceiling while lying on the sofa on an August afternoon.
CHIPPING ONGAR (n.) The disgust and embarrssment (or "ongar) felt by an observer in the presence of a person festooned with "kirbies" (small but repulsive pieces of food prominently attached to a person's face or clothing) when they don't know them well enough to tell them to wipe them off. Invariably, the "ongar" is accompanied by an involuntary staccato twitching of the leg (or "chipping").
CLACKMANNAN (n.) The sound made by knocking over an elephant's foot umbrella stand full of walking sticks. Hence name for a particular kind of disco drum-riff.
CLOVIS (q.v.) One who actually looks forward to putting up the office Christmas decorations.
CLUNES (pl.n.) People who just won't go.
CONDOVER (n.) One who is employed to stand about all day browsing through the magazine racks in the newsagent.
CONG (n.) Strange-shaped metal utensil found at the back of the saucepan cupboard. Many authorities believe that Congs provide conclusive proof of the existence of a now extinct form of yellow vegetable which the Victorians used to boil mercilessly.
D
DAMNAGLAUR (n.) A certain facial expression which actors are required to demonstrate their mastery of before they are allowed to play Macbeth. (Editor Foulsham's Note: Sloane's final production of Macbeth had such an effect on the actors that, even today, their faces are fixed in that same facial expression.)
DARENTH (n.) Measure = 0.0000176 mg.
Defined as the amount of margarine capable of covering 100 slices of bread to the depth of one molecule, which is the legal maximum allowed in London sandwich bars.
DEAL (n.) The gummy substance found between damp toes.
DEEPING ST NICHOLAS (n.) What street-wise kids do at Christmas. They hide on the rooftops waiting for Santa Claus to arrive and when he does they wait for him to go down a chimney before nicking stuff from his sleigh.
DES MOINES (pl.n.) The two little lines that come down from your nose.
DEWLISH (adj.) Of the hands and feet - prunelike after an overlong bath.
DIDCOT (n.) The tiny, oddly-shaped bit of card which a ticket inspector cuts out of a ticket with his clipper for no apparent reason.
DIDLING (participial vb.) The process of trying to work out who did it when reading a whodunnit, and trying to keep your options open so that when you find out you can allow yourself to think that you knew who it was all along.
DIPPLE (vb.) To try to remove something sticky from one hand with the other, thus causing it to get stuck to the other hand and eventually to anything else you try to remove it with.
DOBWALLS (pl.n.) The now hard-boiled bits of nastiness which have to be prised off crockery by hand after it has ben through the dishwasher.
DOCKERY (n.) Facetious behaviour adopted by the accused in the mistaken belief that it will endear him to the judge.
DOGDYKE (vb.) Of dog owners, to adopt the absurd pretence that the animal shitting in the gutter is nothing to do with them.
DORCHESTER (n.) Someone else's throaty cough so timed as to obscure the crucial part of the rather amusing remark you've just made.
DORRIDGE (n.) Technical term for one of the lame excuses written in very small print on the side of food or washing powder packets to explain why there's hardly anything inside. Examples include, "Contents may have settled in transit" and "To keep each biscuit fresh they have been individually wrapped in silver paper and cellophane and separated with corrugated lining, a cardboard flap, and heavy industrial tyres."
DREBLEY (n.) Name for a shop that is meant to be witty but is, in fact, wearisome. e.g. "The Frock Exchange", "Hair Apparent" etc;
DUBUQUE (n.) A look given by a superior person to someone who has arrived wearing the wrong sort of shoes.
DUGGLEBY (n.) The person in front of you in the supermarket queue who has just taken ten minutes to unload their trolley onto the conveyor belt and is now in the process of trying to work out which pocket they left their cheque book in, and indeed which pair of trousers.
DUNBOYNE (n.) The moment of realisation that the train you have just patiently watched pulling out of the station was the one you were meant to be on.
DUNCRAGGON (n.) The name of Charles Bronson's retirement cottage.
DUNGENESS (n.) The uneasy feeling that the plastic handles of the overloaded supermarket carrier bag you are carrying are getting longer by the second.
DUNTISH (adj.) Mentally incapacitated by a severe hangover.
E
EDGBASTON (n.) The spare seat-cushion carried by a London bus, which is placed against the rear bumper when the driver wishes to indicate that the bus is broken down. (Editor Foulsham's Note: Since the demise of the Routemaster the spare-seat has now been replaced by a myriad of old pushchairs (some still containing the baby) and umbrellas that have been left behind by 'customers' who got off in a hurry after the bus broke down.)
EPPING (participial vb.) The futile movement of eyebrows and forefingers used when failing to attract the attention of waiters and barmen.
EPWORTH (n.) The precise value of the usefulness of Epping. It is a little-known fact that an earlier draft of the final line of the film Gone With The Wind had Clark Gable saying, "Frankly my dear, I don't give an epworth", the line being eventually changed on the grounds that it wouldn't be understood in Newcastle.
ESHER (n.) One of those push taps installed in public washrooms that enable the user to wash their trousers without actually getting into the basin. (Editor Foulsham's Note: These are the same taps that bring about the smirks on friends' faces when you emerge from the washroom having gone in there for a pee.)
EXETER (n.) All electrical goods contain a number of components and at least one Exeter. If you've just mended a fuse, changed a bulb or fixed a blender, an Exeter is the small piece of plastic left over after you've screwed everything together again which leads you to undoing it and starting all over again.
F
FARNHAM (n.) The feeling you get at about four o'clock in the afternoon when you haven't got enough done.
FARRANCASSIDY (n.) A long and untimately unsuccessful attempt to undo a bra.
FINUGE (vb.) In any attempted division of foodstuffs equally among several people, to give yourself the slice left over.
FIUNARY (n.) The safe place you put something then forget where it was.
FLIMBY (n.) One of those irritating, handle-less, translucent plastic bags you get in supermarkets which, no matter how you hold them, always contrive to let something fall out.
FLODIGARRY (n. Scots) An ankle-length gaberdine or oilskin tarpaulin worn by deep-sea herring fishermen in Arbroath and publicans in Glasgow.
FOINDLE (vb.) To queue-jump very discreetly by working one's way up the line without being spotted doing so.
FOVANT (n.) A taxi driver's gesture, a raised hand pointed out the window which purports to mean "thank you" but actually means "f*** off out of my way".
FRADDAM (n.) The small awkward-shaped piece of cheese which remains after grating a large regular-shaped piece of cheese and enables you to cut your fingers.
FRAMLINGHAM (n.) A kind of burglar alarm cunningly designed so that it can ring at full volume in the street at any time of the day, without apparently disturbing anyone. These include those fitted to business premises in residential areas, which go off as a matter of regular routine at 5.31 pm on a Friday evening and do not get turned off until 9.20 am on Monday morning.
FRIMLEY (n.) Exaggerated carefree saunter adopted by Norman Wisdom as an immediate prelude to dropping down an open manhole.
FRING (n.) The noise made by a lightbulb that has just shone its last.
FROLESWORTH (n.) The minimum time necessary to be spent frowning in deep concentration at each picture at an art exhibition in order that everyone else doesn't think you're a complete moron.
FULKING (participial vb.) Pretending not to be in when the trick or treaters come round.
G
GALASHIELS (pl.n.) A form of particularly long, sparse sideburns which are part of the mandatory uniform of British Rail guards.
GASTARD (n.) Useful new word for an illegitimate child (in order to distinguish it from some one who merely carves you up on the motorway etc;).
GILDERSOME (adj) Descriptive of a joke that someone tells you which starts well, but which becomes so embellished in the telling that you start to weary of it after scarcely half an hour.
GIPPING (participial verb) The fish-like opening and closing of the jaws seen amongst people who have recently been to the dentist and are puzzled as to whether there teeth have been put back the right way up. (Editor Foulsham's Note: Also something that Gordon Brown uses to good effect when trying to make anyone he's talking to feel sorry for him and thus forget completely what rubbish it is he's actually spouting).
GLASGOW (n.) The feeling of infinite sadness engendered when walking through a place filled with happy people twenty five years younger than yourself.
GLASSEL (n.) The seaside pebble which was shiny and interesting when wet and which is simply a lump of rock when dry. Children nevertheless insist on filling their suitcase with them before leaving for home when the holiday's over.
GLAZELEY (adj.) The state of a barrister's flat greasy hair after wearing his wig all day.
GLENTAGGART (n.) A particular type of tartan hold-all made exclusively under licence for British Airways. When waiting to collect your luggage from an airport conveyor belt, you will notice that on the next conveyor belt along there is always a single, solitary bag going round and round uncollected. This is a glentaggart which has been placed there by baggage-handling staff to take your mind off the fact that your own luggage will shortly be landing in Murmansk.
GLENWHILLY (n. Scots) A small tartan pouch worn beneath the kilt during the thistle-harvest.
GLINSK (n.) A hat which politicians buy to go to Russia in.
GLOSSOP (n.) A rogue blob of food which invariably falls from your spoon and lands on your tie or, if your luck's out, on your host's new, highly-polished parquet flooring.
GOADBY MARWOOD (n.) Someone who stops John Cleese on the street and demands he does a funny walk.
GOOLE (n.) The puddle on the bar into which the barman insists on putting your change.
GOOSNARGH (n.) The meal left-overs that you put in the fridge knowing full well you'll never make use of them.
GREAT TOSSON (n.) A fat book containing four words and six cartoons which costs £7.99.
GREAT WAKERING (participial vb.) The panic which sets in when you badly need to go to the lavatory and cannot make up your mind what to take with you to read.
GRETNA GREEN (adj.) The shade of green that makes you wish you'd painted whatever it was a different colour.
GRIMSBY (n.) A lump of foul-tasting gristle concealed in a mouthful of stew or pie.
GUERNSEY (adj.) Queasy but unbowed. The kind of feeling one gets on discovering a plastic compartment in a fridge in which things are growing.
GWEEK (n.) A coat hanger recycled as a car aerial.
H
HADZOR (n.) A sharp instrument placed in the washing-up bowl that makes it easier to cut yourself.
HAGNABY (n.) Someone who looked a lot more attractive in the disco than they do i your bed in the morning.
HALCRO (n.) An adhesive fibrous cloth used to hold babies' clothes together. Thousands of tiny pieces of jam 'hook' on to thousands of tiny pieces of dribble, enabling the cloth to become 'sticky'.
HAPPLE (vb.) To annoy people by finishing their sentences for them and then telling them what they really meant to say.
HARBLEDOWN (vb.) To manoeuvre a double mattress down a winding staircase.
HASELBURY PLUCKNETT (n.) A mechanical device for cleaning combs invented during the industrial revolution at the same time as Arkwright's Spinning Jenny, but which didn't catch on in the same way.
HASSOP (n.) The pocket down the back of an armchair used for storing 10p pieces, old combs and pieces of Lego.
HATHERSAGE (n.) The tiny snippets of beard that coat the inside of a washbasin after shaving in it.
HAUGHAM (n.) One who loudly informs other diners in a restaurant what kind of man he is by calling for the chef by his christian name from the lobby.
HAXBY (n.) Any garden implement found in the potting shed whose exact purpose is unclear.
HENSTRIDGE (n.) The dried yellow substance found between the prongs of forks in restaurants.
HERSTMONCEUX (n.) The correct name for the gold medallion worn by someone who is in the habit of wearing their shirt open to the waist.
HEVER (n.) The panic caused by half-hearing the tannoy in an airport.
HIBBING (n.) The marks left on the outside pocket of a storekeeper's overall where he has put away his pen and missed.
HICKLING (participial vb.) The practice of infuriating theatre-goers by not only arriving late to a centre-row seat, but also loudly apologising to and patting each member of the audience in turn.
HIGH LIMERIGG (n.) The topmost tread of a staircase that disappears when you're climbing the stairs in the dark.
HODDLESDEN (n.) An 'injured' footballer's limp back into the game which draws applause but doesn't fool anybody.
HOGGESTON (n.) The action of overshaking a pair of dice in a cup in the mistaken belief that this will affect the eventual outcome in your favour and not irritate everyone else.
HUBY (n.) A half-erection large enough to be a publicly embarrassing bulge in the trousers but not large enough to be of use to anybody.
HUMBER (vb.) To move like the cheeks of a very fat person as their car goes over a cattle grid.
HUTTOFT (n.) The fibrous algae that grows in the dark, moist environment of trouser turn-ups.
I
IPING (participial vb.) The increasingly anxious shifting from leg to leg you go through when you are desperate to go to the lavatory and the person you are talking to keeps on remembering a few final things he wants to mention.
J
JARROW (adj.) An agricultural device which, when towed behind a tractor, enables the farmer to spread his dung evenly across the width of the road.
JURBY (n.) A loose woollen garment reaching to the knees and with three or more armholes, knitted by the wearer's well-meaning but incompetent aunt.
K
KALAMI (n.) The ancient Eastern art of being able to fold road maps properly.
KELLING (participial vb.) A person searching for something, who has reached the futile stage of re-looking in all the places they have looked once already, is sadi to be 'kelling'.
KENTUCKY (adv.) Fitting exactly and satisfyingly. The cardboard box that slides neatly into an exact space in the garage, or the last book that exactly fills a bookshelf is said to fit 'real nice and kebtucky'.
KERRY (n.) The small twist of skin that separates each sausage on a string.
KETTERING (n.) The marks left on your bottom or thighs after sunbathing on a wicker-work chair.
KETTLENESS (adj.) The quality of not being able to pee whilst being watched.
KIBBLESWORTH (n.) The footling amount of money by which the price of a given article in a shop is less than a sensible number, in the vain hope that at least one idiot will think it cheap. For instance, the kibblesworth on a pair of shoes priced £19.99, is 1p.
KIRBY (n.) The small but repulsive piece of food prominently attched to a person's face or clothing. See also CHIPPING ONGAR.
KIRBY MISPERTON (n.) One who kindly attempts to wipe an apparent KIRBY off another's face with a napkin, and then discovers it to be a wart or other permanent fixture, is said to have committed a 'kirby misperton'.
KITMURVY (n.) One who owns all the latest sporting gadgetry and clothing (tee cosies, ventilated shoes etc;) but is still only on his second golf lesson.
KNAPTOFT (n.) The mystrious fluff placed in your pockets by dry cleaning firms.
KURDISTAN (n.)Hard stare given by a husband to his wife when he notices a sharp increase in the number of times he answers the phone to be told, 'Sorry, wrong number.'
L
LAMLASH (n.) The folder found on hotel dressing-tables full of astoundingly dull information.
LARGOWARD (n.) Motorists' name for the kind of pedestrian who stands beside a main road and waves on the traffic, as if it's their right of way.
LIMERIGG (vb.) To jar one's leg as the result of the disappearance of a stair which isn't there in the darkness.
LINDISFARNE (n.) Descriptive of the pleasant smell of an empty biscuit tin.
LISTOWEL (n.) The small mat on the bar designed to be more absorbent than the bar, but not as absorbent as your elbows.
LITTLE URSWICK (n.) The member of any class who most inclines the teacher towards the view that capital punishment should be introduced in schools.
LOCHRANZA (n.) The long, unaccompanied wail in the middle of a Scottish folk song where the pipers nip round the corner for a couple of drinks. (Editor Foulsham's Note: Not to be confused with the Ginger Baker drum solos in the 60s when Eric Clapton and Jack Bruce tended to do the same thing. The last one of these occurred at their 1968 Albert Hall farewell concert when, much to the disgust of Ginger, they were not to return again for a number of years.)
LOSSIEMOUTH (n.) One of those middle-aged ladies with just the hint of a luxuriant handlebar moustache.
LOUTH (n.) The sort of man who wears loud check jackets, has a personalised tankard behind the bar and always gets served before you do.
LOW EGGBOROUGH (n.) A quiet, little, unregarded man in glasses who is building a new kind of atomic bomb in his garden shed.
LOWESTOFT (n.) The balls of wool which collect on nice new sweaters.
LOWTHER (vb.) Of a large group of people who have been out together. To stand aimlessly about on the pavement and argue about whether to go and eat either a Chinese meal nearby or an Indian meal at a restaurant that somebody says is very good but isn't certain where it is, or have a drink and think about it, or just go home, or have a Chinese meal nearby - until by the time agreement is reached everything is shut.
LUDLOW (n.) A wad of paper, folded table napkin or lump of cardboard put under a wobbly table or chair to make it stand up straight. It is perhaps not widely known that air-ace Sir Douglas Bader used to get about on an enormous pair of ludlows before having his artificial legs fitted.
LUFFENHAM (n.) Feeling you get when the pubs aren't going to be open for another forty-five minutes and the luffness is beginning to wear a bit thin.
LUFFNESS (n.) Hearty feeling that comes from walking about on the moors with gumboots and cold ears.
LUSBY (n.) The fold of flesh pushing forward over the top of a bra which is too small for the woman inside it.
LUTON (n.) The horseshoe-shaped rug which goes round a lavatory seat.
LYDIARD TREGOZE (n.) The opposite of a mavis enderby (q.v.). An unrequited early love of your life who still causes terrible pangs though she inexplicably married a telephone engineer.
M
MAARUIG (n.) The inexpressible horror experienced on waking up in the morning and remembering that you are Andy Stewart.
MAENTWROG (n. Welsh) Celtic word for a computer spelling mistake.
MALIBU (n.) The height by which the top of a wave exceeds the height to which you have rolled up your trousers.
MAPLEDURHAM (n.) The hideous piece of chipboard veneer furniture bought in a suburban high-street furniture store and designed to hold exactly a year's supplu of Sunday colour supplements.
MARGATE (n.) A Margate is a particular kind of commissionaire who sees you every day and is on cheerful Christian-name terms with you, then one day refuses to let you in because you've forgotten your identity card.
MARLOW (n.) The bottom drawer in the kitchen your mother kept her paper bags in.
MASSACHUSETTS (pl.n.) Those items and particles which people who, after blowing their noses are searching for when they look in their hankies.
MAVIS ENDERBY (n.) The almost-completely-forgotten girlfriend from your distant past for whom your wife has a completely irrational jealousy and hatred.
MEATHOP (n.) One who sets off for the scene of an ircraft crash with a picnic hamper.
MEETH (n.) Something which doctors will shortly tell us we are all suffering from.
MELLON UDRIGLE (n.) The ghastly sound made by traditional folk-singers.
MELTON CONSTABLE (n.) A patent anti-wrinkle cream which policemen wear to keep themselves looking young.
MILWAUKEE (n.) The melodious whistling, chanting and humming tone of the milwaukee can be heard whenever a public lavatory is entered. It is the way the occupants of the cubicles have of telling you there's no lock on their door.
MINCHINHAMPTON (n.) The expression on a man's face when he has just zipped up his trousers without due care and attention.
MOFFAT (n. tailoring term) That part of your coat which is designed to be sat on by the person sitting next to you on the bus.
MOTSPUR (n.) The fourth wheel of a supermarket trolley which looks identical to the other three but renders the trolley completely uncontrollable.
N
NAAS (n.) The winemaking region of Albania where most of the wine that people take to bottle-parties comes from.
NAD (n.) Measure defined as the distance between a driver's outstretched finger-tips and the ticket machine in an automatic car-park. 1 nad = 18.4 cm.
NANHORON (n. medical) A tiny vavlve concealed in the inner ear which enables a deaf grandmother to converse quite normally when she feels like it, but which excludes completely anything that sounds like a request to help with laying the table.
NANTUCKET (n.) The secret pocket which eats your train ticket.
NANTWICH (n.) A late night snack, invented by the Earl of Nantwich, which consists of the dampest thing in the fridge, pressed between two of the driest things in the fridge. The Earl, who lived in a bedsit in Clapham, invented the Nantwich to avoid having to go shopping.
NAPLES (pl.n.) The tiny depressions in a slice of Ryvita.
NAUGATUCK (n.) A plastic sachet containing shampoo, sauce etc., which is impossible to open except by biting off the corners.
NEMPNETT THRUBWELL (n.) The feeling experienced when driving off for the first time on a brand new motorbike.
NETHER POPPLETON (n.obs.) A pair of P.J. Proby's trousers.
NOTTAGE (n.) The collective name for things which you find a use for immediately after you've thrown them away.
NUBBOCK (n.) The kind of person who has to leave before a party can relax and enjoy itself.
NYBSTER (n.) The sort of person who takes a lift to travel one floor.
O
OCKLE (n.) An electrical switch which appears to be off in both positions.
OSHKOSH (n.vb.) The noise made by someone who has just been grossly flattered and is trying to make light of it.
OSSETT (n.) A frilly spare-toilet-roll-cosy.
OSWALDTWISTLE (n. Old Norse) Small brass wind instrument used for summoning Vikings to lunch when they're off on their longships, playing.
OUGHTERBY (n.) Someone you don't want to invite to a wedding but whom you know you have to as a matter of duty because they're family.
OUNDLE (vb.) To walk along leaning sideways, with one arm hanging limp and dragging one leg behind the other. Most commonly used by actors in amateur productions of Richard III, or by people trying to carry a heavy suitcase with one hand. (Editor Foulsham's Note: The inability of schoolboys to perfect the Ozark possibly explains why Guy Boas never chose to perform Richard III at the School. Had Mr Slocombe been available he would surely have been ripe for the part but work commitments, e.g painting white lines and mowing the grass, at the Roehampton Playing Fields ensured this was never to be.
OZARK (n.) One who offers to help just after all the work has been done.
P
PANT-Y-WACCO (adj.) The final state of mind of a retired colonel before they come to take him away.
PAPPLE (vb.) To do what babies do to soup with their spoons.
PEEBLES (pl.n.) Small, carefully rolled pellets of skegness (q.v.)
PELUTHO (n.) A South American ball game. The balls are whacked against a brick wall with a stout wooden bat until the prisoner confesses.
PEN-TRE-TAFARN-Y-FEDW (n.) Welsh word which literally translates as 'leaking-biro-by-the-glass-hole-of-the-clerk-of-the-bank-has-been-taken-to-another-place-leaving-only-the-special-inkwell-and-three-inches-of-tin-chain'.
PEORIA (n.) The fear of peeling too few potatoes.
PERCYHORNER (n.) English public-school slang for the prefect whose duty it is to surprise new boys at the urinal and humiliate them in a manner of his choosing.
PERRANZABULOE (n.) One of those spray things used to wet ironing with. ( Editor Foulsham's Note: Invented by Cornishman Sir Humphrey Davy as a surefire way of ensuring the flame in his Miner's Safety Helmet could be extinguished at the first whiff of gas. Unfortunately, this also meant that they could no longer see where they were going and led to thousands of compensation claims from the resulting accidents. Ultimately, this also led to the demise of the British Coal Industry as they could no longer afford to keep going. Margaret Thatcher's Government of the 80's and 90's have often been blamed for this when things started going downhill with Sir Humphrey Davy's birth in 1778 ).
PIDDLETRENTHIDE (n.) A trouser stain caused by a Wimbledon (q.v.). Not to be confused with a botley (q.v.)
PIMLICO (n.) Small odd-shaped piece of plastic or curious metal component found in the bottom of a kitchen drawer when spring-cleaning or looking for Sellotape.
PIMPERNE (n.) One of those rubber nodules found on the underside of a lavatory seat.
PITLOCHRY (n.) The background gurgling noise heard in McDonalds caused by people trying to get the last bubbles out of their milkshakes by slurping loudly through their straws.
PLYMOUTH (vb.) To relate an amusing story to someone without remembering that it was they who told it to you in the first place.
PLYMPTON (n.) The pointless knob on top of a war memorial.
POGES (pl.n.) The lumps of dry powder that remain after cooking a packet of soup.
POLBATHIC (adj.) Gifted with the ability to manipulate taps using only the feet.
POLLOCH (n.) One of those tiny ribbed-plastic and aluminium foil tubs of milk served on trains enabling you to carry one safely back to your compartment where you can spill the contents all over your legs in comfort trying to get it open.
POLPERRO (n.) The ball, or muff, of soggy hair found clinging to bath overflow holes.
POTT SHRIGLEY (n.) Dried remains of a week-old casserole, eaten when extremely drunk at two o'clock in the morning.
Q
QUABBS (pl.n.) The substances which emerge when you squeeze a blackhead.
QUEDGELEY (n.) A rabidly left-wing politician who can afford to be that way because they married a millionaire.
QUENBY (n.) A stubborn spot on a window which you spend twenty minutes trying to clean off before realising that it's on the other side of the glass.
QUERRIN (n.) A person that no one has ever heard of who unaccountably manages to make a living as a writer of prefaces.
QUOYNESS (n.) The hatefulness of words like 'relionus' and 'easiphit'.
R
RAMSGATE (n.) All institutional buildings must, by law, contain at least twenty ramsgates. These are doors which open the opposite way to the one you expect.
RANFURLY (adj.) The fashion of tying ties so that the long thin end underneath dangles below the short, fat upper end.
ROCHESTER (n.) One who is able to gain occupation of the armrests on both sides of their cinema, theatre or aeroplane seat.
ROYSTON (n.) The man behind you in at a wedding or funeral who sings with terrific gusto almost three-quarters of a tone off the note.
RUNCORN (n.) A peeble (q.v.) which is larger than a belper (q.v.).
S
SAFFRON WALDEN (n.) A particular kind of hideous casual jacket that noboduy wears in real life, but which was much favoured by Ronnie Barker.
SAVERNAKE (vb.) To sew multiple crests onto a windcheater in the belief that this will make the wearer appear cosmopolitan.
SCAMBLESBY (n.) A small dog which resembles a throw-rug and appears to be dead.
SCONSER (n.) A person who looks around them when talking to you, to see if there's anyone more interesting about.
SCOPWICK (n.) The flap of skin which is torn off your lip when trying to smoke an untipped cigarette.
SCORRIER (n.) A small hunting dog trained to snuffle amongst your private parts.
SCRABBY (n.) A curious-shaped duster given to you by your mother which, on closer inspection, turns out to be half an underpant
SCRABSTER (n.) One of those dogs that has it off on your leg during tea at an elderly aunt's.
SCRAMOGE (vb.) To cut oneself whilst licking envelopes.
SCRAPTOFT (n.) The absurd flap of hair a vain and balding man grows long above one ear to comb it plastered over the top of his head to the other ear.
SCREEB (n.) To make the noise of a nylon anorak rubbing against a pair of corduroy trousers.
SCREGGAN (n.banking) The crossed-out bit caused by people putting the wrong year on their cheques all through January.
SCREMBY (n.) The dehydrated felt-tip pen attached to the "Don't Forget" board in the kitchen which has never worked in living memory but which no one can be bothered to throw away.
SCROGGS (n.) The stout hairs of unknown origin which protrude from your helping of moussaka in a cheap Greek restaurant.
SCULLET (n.) The last teaspoon in the washing up.
SHENANDOAH (n.) The infinite smugness of one who knows they are entitled to a place in a nuclear bunker.
SHIFNAL (n.,vb.) An awkward shuffling walk caused by two people in a hurry accidently getting into the same segment of a revolving door.
SHIRMERS (pl.n.) Tall young men who stand around smiling at weddings as if to suggest that they know the bride rather well.
SHOEBURYNESS (abs.n.) The vague uncomfortable feeling you get from sitting on a seat that is still warm from sombody else's bottom.
SHRIVENHAM (n.) One of Germaine Greer's used-up lovers.
SIDCUP (n.) One of those hats made from tying knots in the corners of a handkerchief.
SILLOTH (n.) Something that was sticky, and is now furry, found on the carpet under the sofa the morning after a party.
SKEGNESS (n.) Nose excreta of a malleable consistency.
SKENFRITH (n.) The flakes of athlete's foot found inside socks.
SKETTY (n.) Apparently self-propelled little dance a beer glass performs in its own puddle.
SKIBBEREEN (n.) The noise made by a sunburned thigh leaving a plastic garden chair.
SLIGO (n.) An unnamed and exotic sexual act that people like to believe that famous film stars get up to in private. 'To commit sligo.'
SLUBBERY (n.) The gooey drips of wax that dribble down the sides of a candle so beloved by Italian restaurants with Chianti bottles instead of wallpaper.
SLUMBAY (n.) The cigarette end that someone discovers in the mouthful of lager they have just swigged from a can at the end of a party.
SMISBY (n.) The correct name for a junior apprentice greegrocer whose main duty is to arrange the fruit so that the bas side is underneath.
SNITTER (n.) One of the rather unfunny newspaper clippings pinned to an office wall, the humour of which is supposed to derive from the fact that the headline contains a name similar to that of one of the occupants of the office.
SNITTERBY (n.) Someone who pins snitters (q.v.) onto snitterfields (q.v.) and is also suspected of being responsible for the extinction of virginstows (q.v.).
SNITTERFIELD (n.) Office noticeboard on which snitters (q.v.) , cards saying "You don't have to be mad to work here, but if you are it helps!!!"and slightly smutty postcards from Ibiza get pinned up by snitterbies (q.v.).
SOLENT (adj.) Descriptive of the state of serene self-knowledge reached through drink.
SPITTAL OF GLENSHEE (n.) That which has to be cleaned off castle floors in the morning after a bagpipe contest or vampire attack.
STEBBING (n.) The erection you cannot conceal because you are not wearing a jacket.
STOKE POGES (n.) The tapping movements of an index finger on glass made by a person futilely attempting to communicate with either a tropical fish or a post office clerk.
SUTTON and CHEAM (nouns) The two kinds of dirt into which all dirt is divided. 'Sutton' is the dark sort that always gets onto light-coloured things, and 'Cheam' the light-coloured sort that always clings to dark items. Anyone who has ever found Marmite stains on a dress-shirt, or seagull goo on a dinner jacket, knows all about Sutton and Cheam and is also going to some very curious dinner parties.
SYMOND'S YAT (n.) The little spoonful inside the lid of a recently opened boiled egg.
T
TABLEY SUPERIOR (n.) The look directed at you in a theatre bar in the interval by people who've already got their drinks.
TAROOM (vb.) To make loud noises during the night to let the burglars now you're in.
THEAKSTONE (n.) Ancient mad tramp who jabbers to himself and swears loudly and obscenely on station platforms and traffic islands.
THROCKMORTON (n.) The soul of a departed madman: one of those now known to inhabit the timing mechanism of pop-up toasters.
THRUMSTER (n.) The irritating man next to you in a concert, who thinks he's (a) the conductor, (b) the brass section.
THRUPP (vb.) To hold a ruler at one ond on a desk and make the other go bbddbbddbbrrbrrrddrr.
THURNBY (n.) A rucked-up edge of carpet which everyone says someone will trip over and break a leg unless it gets fixed. After a year or two someone trips over it and breaks a leg.
TIDPIT (n) The corner of a toenail from which satisfying little black deposits may be sprung.
TIGHARRY (n.) The accomplice or 'lure' who gets punters to participate in the three-card trick on London streets by winning an improbable amount of money very easily.
TILLICOULTRY (n.) The man-to-man chumminess adopted by an employer as a prelude to telling an employee that he's going to have to let him go.
TINCLETON (n.) The man who amuses himself in your lavatory by pulling the chain in mid-pee and then seeing if he can finish before the flush does.
TINGRITH (n.) The feeling of silver paper against your fillings.
TODBER (n.) One whose idea of a good time is to stand behind his front hedge and give surly nods to people he doesn't know.
TOLSTACHAOLAIS (phr.) What the police in Leith require you to say to prove that you're not drunk.
TOOTING BEC (n.) A car behind which one draws up at the traffic lights and hoots at when the lights go green before realising that the car is parked and there is no one inside it.
TORLUNDY (n.) Narrow but thickly grimed strip of floor between the fridge and the sink unit in the kitchen of a rented flat.
TOTTERIDGE (n.) The ridiculous two-inch hunch that people adopt when arriving late for the theatre in the vain and futile hope that it will minimise either the embarrassment or the lack of visibility for the rest of the audience (See HICKLING).
TRISPEN (n.) A form of intelligent grass. It grows a single, tough stalk and makes its home on lawns. When it sees the lawnmower coming it lies down and pops up again after it has gone by.
TROSSACHS (pl.n.) The useless epaulettes on an expensive raincoat.
TUAMGRANEY (n.) A hideous wooden ornament that people hang over the mantelpiece to prove they've been to Africa.
TWEESSMUIR (collective.n.) The name given to the extensive collection of hats kept in the downstairs lavatory that don't fit anyone in the family.
TWEMLOW GREEN (n.) The colour of a colour-blind gentleman's trousers, worn in the mistaken belief they go rather well with his sproston green (q.v.) jacket.
TWOMILEBORRIS (n.) A popular East European outdoor game in which the first person to reach the front of the meat queue wins, and the losers have to forfeit their bath plugs. (Editor Foulsham's Note: Since the fall of Communism, East European countries have now leap- frogged the West at the head of the wealth queue, this no longer applies to them but is still applicable to parts of Africa. It can also be applied to the area covered by the current Mayor of London (Boris Johnson) on his bicycle, just before he jumps off and into his limo on the outskirts of London to complete the journey home whilst at the same time retaining the 'green' vote.
U
ULLAPOOL (n.) The spittle which builds up on the floor of the orchestra pit of the Royal Opera House.
ULLOCK (n.) The correct name for either of the deaf Scandinavian tourists who are standing two abreast in front of you on the escalator.
UPOTTERY (n.) That part of a kitchen cupboard or dresser that contains an unnecessarily large number of milk jugs and/or gravy boats.
UTTOXETER (n.) A small but immensely complex mechanical device which is essentially the 'brain' of a modern coffee-vending machine, and which enables the machine to make its own decisions.
VALETTA (n.) An ornate head-dress or loose garment worn by a person in the belief that it makes them invisibly native and not like a tourist at all. People who don huge conical straw coolie hats with 'I Luv Lagos' on them in Nigeria, or solicitors from Tonbridge on holiday in Malaya who insist on appearing in the hotel lobby wearing a sarong, kow what I'm on about.
VANCOUVER (n.) The technical name for one of those huge trucks with whirling brushes on the bottom that are used to clean steets at all times of the day.
VENTNOR (n.) One who, having been visited as a child by a mysterious gypsy lady, is gifted with the strange power of being able to operate the air-nozzles above aeroplane seats.
VIRGINSTOW (n.) A Durex machine which doesn't have the phrase 'So was the Titanic' scrawled on it. The word has now fallen into disuse. (Editor Foulsham's Note: Unlike the Durex itself which has made a comeback - for want of a better word - in recent years due to the media hype regarding the increase in Aids, and all manner of other sexually-transmitted diseases, whose existence, obviously, was totally ignored by young men of the 1960s and 70s - some of whom are still alive today to tell the tale).
VOBSTER (n.) A strain of perfectly healthy rodent which develops cancer the moment it enters a laboratory.
w
WATH (n.) The rage of Jonathan Ross.
WENDENS AMBO (n.) (Veterinary item) The operation to trace an object swallowed by a cow through all its seven stomachs. Hence, also (1) anexpedition to discover where the xits are in the O2 Arena, and (2) a search through the complete works of Chaucer for all the rude bits.
WEST WITTERING (participial vb.) The uncontrollable twitching which breaks out when you're trying to get away from the most boring person at a party.
WETWANG (n.) A moist penis.
WHASSET (n.) A business card in your wallet belonging to someone you have no recollection of meeting.
WIDDICOMBE (n.) The sort of person who used to impersonate trimphones.
WIGAN (n.) If, when talking to someone you know has only one leg, you're trying to treat them perfectly casually and normally, but find to your horror that your conversation is liberally studded with references to (a) Long John Silver, (b) Hopalong Cassidy, (c) the Hokey Cokey, (d) 'putting your foot in it', (e) the last leg of any football competition, you are siad to have committed a wigan.
WIMBLEDON (n.) The last drop which, no matter how much you shake it, always goes down your trouser leg.
WINSTON-SALEM (n.) The person in a restaurant who suggests to their companions that they should split the cost of the meal equally, usually because they've eaten twice as much as anyone else, then orders two packets of cigarettes, and a bottle of wine to rake away, on the bill when they think no one is looking.
WOKING (participial vb.) Standing in the kitchen wondering what you came in here for.
WORGRET (n.) A kind of poltergeist which specialises in stealing new copies of the A-Z from your car.
WORKSOP (n.) A person who never actually gets round to doing anything because he spends all his time writing out lists headed 'Things To Do (Urgent!).
WRABNESS (n.) The feeling after having tried to dry oneself with a damp towel.
WROOT (n.) An irritating, short, little chap who thinks that by pulling on his pipe and gazing shrewdly at you he will give the impression that he is infinitely wise and 5ft 11 ins.
WYOMING (partcipial vb.) Moving in hurried desperation from one cubicle to another in a public lavatory trying to find one which has a lock on the door, a seat on the bowl, no brown streaks on the seat and at least one sheet of paper.
Y
YADDLETHORPE (vb.) (Of offended pooves) To exit huffily from a boutique.
YARMOUTH (vb.) To shout at foreigners in the belief that the louder you speak, the better they'll understand you.
YEPPOON (n.) One of the hat-hanging corks favoured by directors who make QANTAS commersials.
YESNABY (n.) A 'yes, maybe', which means 'no'.
YONDER BOGNIE (n.) The kind of restaurant advertised as 'just three minutes from this cinema' which clearly nobody ever goes to and, even if they had ever contemplated it, have certainly changed their mind since seeing the advert.
Z
ZEAL MONACHORUM (n.) (Skiing term) To ski with 'zeal monachorum' is to descend the tp three quarters of the mountain in a quivering blue funk, but on arriving at the gentle bit just in front of the restaurant to whizz to a stop like a victorious slalom-champion.
* * * * * * * *
Tichborne's Elegy
I came across this poem amongst my daughter's English GCSE coursework. It was written in 1586, age 28, by Chidiok Tichborne, whilst in the Tower of London shortly before being hung, drawn and quartered for his part in the plot to murder Elizabeth I. I hadn't seen the poem before and felt it deserved a wider audience.
My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,
My feast of joy is but a dish of pain;
My crop of corn is but a field of tares,
And all my good is but vain hope of gain.
The day is past and yet I saw no sun;
And now I live, and now my life is done.
My tale was heard, and yet it was not told,
My fruit is fallen, and yet my leaves are green;
My youth is spent, and yet I am not old,
I saw the world, and yet I was not seen.
My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun;
And now I live, and now my life is done.
I sought my death, and found it in my womb,
I looked for life and saw it was a shade;
I trod the earth, and knew it was my tomb,
And now I die, and now I was but made.
My glass is full, and now my glass is run;
And now I live, and now my life is done.
* * * * * * * *
The Life That I Have by Leo Marks
I've always liked the simplicity, yet beauty of this poem -
The life that I have
Is all that I have
And the life that I have
Is yours.
The love that I have
Of the life that I have
Is yours and yours and yours.
A sleep I shall have
A rest I shall have
Yet death will be but a pause.
For the peace of my years
In the long green grass
Will be yours and yours and yours.
* * * * * * * *
Dave Parkin sent me this brilliant piece which I think you should all take to heart and have a go at for yourself. Mensa beckons and so does publication on this site for all those you come up with:-
Subject:Mensa Invitational Words:
Here are the winners of this year's Washington Post's Mensa Invitational which once again asked readers to take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing one letter, and supply a new definition :
1. Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house, which renders the
subject financially impotent for an indefinite period of time.
2. Ignoranus: A person who is both stupid and an asshole.
3. Intaxication: Euphoria at getting a tax refund, which lasts until you
realize it was your money to start with.
4. Reintarnation: Coming back to life as a hillbilly.
5. Bozone (n.): The substance surrounding stupid people that stops
bright ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows
little sign of breaking down in the near future.
6. Foreploy: Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of
getting a date.
7. Giraffiti: Vandalism spray-painted very, very high
8. Sarchasm: The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person
who doesn't get it.
9. Inoculatte: To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.
10. Osteopornosis: A degenerate disease. (This one got extra credit.)
11. Karmageddon: It's like, when everybody is sending off all these
really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's
like, a serious bummer.
12. Decafalon (n.): The grueling event of getting through the day
consuming only things that are good for you.
13. Glibido: All talk and no action.
14. Dopeler Effect: The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when
they come at you rapidly.
15.. Arachnoleptic Fit (n.): The frantic dance performed just after
you've accidentally walked through a spider web.
16. Beelzebug (n.): Satan in the form of a mosquito, that gets into your
bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out.
17. Caterpallor (n.): The color you turn after finding half a worm in
the fruit you're eating.
The Washington Post has also published the winning submissions to its yearly contest in which readers are asked to supply alternate meanings for common words. And the winners are:
1. Coffee, n. The person upon whom one coughs.
2. Flabbergasted, adj. Appalled by discovering how much weight one has
gained.
3. Abdicate, v. To give up all hope of ever having a flat stomach..
4. Esplanade, v. To attempt an explanation while drunk.
5. Willy-nilly, adj. Impotent.
6. Negligent, adj. Absentmindedly answering the door when wearing only a
nightgown.
7. Lymph, v. To walk with a lisp.
8. Gargoyle, n. Olive-flavored mouthwash.
9. Flatulence, n. Emergency vehicle that picks up someone who has been run over by a steamroller.
10. Balderdash, n. A rapidly receding hairline.
11. Testicle n. A humorous question on an exam.
12. Rectitude, n. The formal, dignified bearing adopted by proctologists.
13. Pokemon, n. A Rastafarian proctologist.
14. Oyster, n. A person who sprinkles his conversation with yiddishisms.
15. Frisbeetarianism, n. The belief that, after death, the soul flies up
onto the roof and gets stuck there.
16. Circumvent, n. An opening in the front of boxer shorts worn by
Jewish men.
* * * * * * * *
Clever use of words:-
The following quotes come from a time when people didn't rely on the four-letter variety but spent time choosing, and using, their words cleverly -
An MP once said to Disraeli: "Sir, you will either die on the gallows or of some unspeakable disease."
"That depends, Sir," he replied, "whether I embrace your plicies or your mistress."
Mark Twain once said: " I didn't attend the funeral but I sent a nice note saying I approved of it."
Oscar Wilde said of someone: " He has no enemies but is intensely disliked by his friends.
Walter Kerr said of another: "He had delusions of adequacy."
John Bright is attributed with: " He is a self-made man and worships his creator."
Paul Keating: "He is simply a shiver looking for a spine to run up."
Actor, Forrest Tucker: " He loves nature in spite of what it did to him."
Charles, Count Talleyrand, said of a lady of his acquaint: "In order to avoid being called a flirt, she always yielded easily."
Oscar Wilde: "Some cause happiness wherever they go; others, whenever they go."
Mark Twain: " Why do you sit there looking like an envelope without an address on it."
Billy Wilder, film-maker: " He has Van Gogh's ear for music."
George Bernard Shaw to Winston Churchill: "I am enclosing two tickets to the first night of my new play; bring a friend...... if you have one."
Churchill replied: " Can't possibly attend first night, will attend second..... if there is one."
Lessons in Language:-
Sometimes you do wish that people would proof read what they've written before they publish. The following were sent in by MikeAlagoa and refer to signs seen out and about:-
Toilet out of order please use floor below.
Automatic washing machines. Please remove all your clothes when light goes out.
Bargain basement upstairs.
The only vacuum cleaner bag you'll ever need! Buy one get one free!
After tea break staff should empty the teapot and stand upside down on the draining board.
If you cannot read, this leaflet will tell you how to get lessons.
And one that annoys me, along similar lines to the last one above, is the one that appears on most official leaflets these days - IF YOU CANNOT READ THIS LEAFLET, PLEASE REQUEST ONE IN LARGER PRINT.
* * * * *
This poem appears in Guy Boas's 1963 book A Teacher's Story. It is attributed to an unknown Sloane junior boy, but LesGrimes thinks it may have been by a Classmate of his called Davies, and was written around 1949. Given today's current climate it seemed appropriate to publish it here:-
Teddy Boys
Six silly boys,
Six silly knives,
Two silly boys,
Acting as spies.
Three brave bobbies
Investigate a noise,
Go into a lobby,
See two silly boys.
One brave bobby
Stabbed by a boy,
Lying in lobby,
Knife's no toy.
Six silly boys,
Up in court,
Death for the boys,
Being caught.
