It is a lovely word, watchful, yet so few of us are. Too busy. Messaging.
It is odd that language has been so truncated, one would think that with the arrival of Platforms4All it would develop and flower but no, language, like people, just gets uglier.
Miniature, too, is such a lovely word, now eradicated by, of all people, motor car ad-men and fashion designers.
When it was about ten-years old I owned one of the very first Austin Sevens;
it had a solenoid starter-button on the floor and simply refused to drive in the rain, its distributor cap sitting virtually unshielded, just behind the radiator grille and shorting-out at the first sign of rain; by the time I owned it, however, it was called a Mini and so, swiftly, was anything else that was not full-sized, not its previous size or just small; mini now - incorrectly - means small. Now the word miniature is only used by arseholes like this,
referring to small works of art, executed using all the skills of portaiture or joinery but in miniature. Min-ee-ah-tyuhs as the inexpert poseur above, would pompously say, gobbing his ignorance on any number of ersatz antique shows. Miniature can also properly refer to a horse, a flower and a single-measure bottle of spirits; it does not, however, and never did, even truncated, mean small. Except to the NewPeople. Gr8, innit? Worthless cunts.
If somebody said to me, Here is a communication/writing device, only you have to use numbers instead of letters, y'know, to save space, like, make up nonsense words and gibberish, I'd tell them to go and fuck themselves.
Ex is another one that drives me nuts. Not properly a word it is a prefix meaning from, out of - ex officio, ex gratia, ex cathedra; ex does not mean former, well, it didn't used to but now it does, now it's almost a proper noun, people speak of The Ex, meaning the former spouse, my Ex, her Ex and these two little letters somehow come freighted with a universeful of contempt, disdain and regret, are generally delivered with a sigh or a grimace. mr a young anglo-irish catholic, of blessed memory, was in the throes of a bilious parting, Ex-ing, wasn't he, when he was around. I hope he has found some equilibrium.
Now, lemme tell y'all.
My first marriage was an interval so fucking horrid and vile, so troubled and disappointing that my survival of it mystifies me to this day. I have had major surgery these past three summers but none of it, not the knives, the tubes and the stitches; not the anaesthetics, the drips and the pipes; not the bullying, incompetent nurses or the braying consultants; not the pain, the sickness, the fear; not the mad, morphine nightmares; not even the fellow patients chuntering at me endlessly, as though I was their comrade, gibbering, confiding, enlisting my support; none of this entire protracted, humiliating horror show compares for soul shredding agony with one week of my first marriage. Even so, I have never been known to describe my former partner in holy deadlock as my ex-anything. It seems so utterly disrespectful, such a blameworthy term, such a continuance of that better left. One is a wife or a husband, one simply cannot be an Ex-Wife and the Ex-ing of those relationships seems so trite, so detrimental, so trivialising of a love once new, now grown old - and worse. I used to lover her, but it's all over now, that's enough isn't it, do we have to create a nightmare character, an Ex? It will no doubt become a staple useage among Same-Sexers, married now, who will simply adore the idea that now they can get divorced, Oh, my dear, the thrill of it all, the spite, the recriminations, the scandal, the hatred. I think that's the real reason for all this horseshit, they all just wanna be divorced, like proper men. No wonder our children are all fucked-up, we can't be bothered to name the other parent correctly, as former wife, former husband or as, in my case, the-person-to-whom-I-was-first-married. Such a vicious little prefix, ex.
Government, too, since Blair, deliberately and determinedly savages our language. Govament ministers, as they call themselves, say the govament are; pompous Little Orphan Gove, when he was education seckatry, posed as the doughty saviour of learning, language and especially of grammar, even though he was adrift on a raft of solecisms, his cheesily pedantic and didactic speeches littered with examples of his own lazy ignorance - In a speech of one hundred and one paragraphs - on the subject of the teaching of english, I counted thirty-two which opened with So, But or And, verbless sentences.
No use talking to the NewPeople about the meaning of words, their potential for corrosion. No use telling them about tax evasion being the sperm of Austerity, no use saying that tax evasion is a polite term for money laundering. They're far too clever to be told about words, hurriedly surrendering all the skills which brought us here to some cunt peddling them a needless application. Sensa direction? WhadooIneedoneathem4? Got an app for that.
Not right, you're not.
No, I guess I'm not. I could be a member of the gaming community, couldn't I, instead of sitting quietly, watching. I could be killing cyberpeople in cyberspace.
We wretched middle class oiks, we think we're so clever, so in touch, so fucking cognoscenti ; the total readership of the broadsheets, however, is about 1.23 million - a sixty fifth of all the population, nothing.
Radio Four listenership is claimed to be 10 million a week, 1.3 million a day, nothing. We are all nobodies.
The people who read the Sun and the Mail, who listen to Radios One and Two, they're the real people.
Radio Four is just our own version of AppleTruth, isn't it? Belbin Bagg, arseing away about his idea of High Culture. And what it means, to a working class Lord, like him. As if he'd know, after a lifetime spent MichaelParkinsoning his way around the droppings of showbiz, sniffing a thread, here, a nuance, there, an overarching theme to the entire series of shit-sniffing, stupid cunt.
I read one of Belbin's novels, once, Credo, about the Romanocising of native Christianity in the seventh-century North, Cuthbert and Lindisfarne, that sort of thing, and although it was based on others' researches and was an interesting tale, Lord Bagg peppered it with unspeakable, pornographic, extreme sexual violence. I have read a lot of such stuff, le transgresif, although mr verge is the house consultant on these matters, but I found Belbin's stab at the ouevre sickening and if I might say so, unnecessary.
Having such a highly developed sense of the public good, why doesn't the Eye release some of its undoubtedly worthy revelations and discoveries online, freely, pro bono? Ho-ho, would chortle the grubby little editor, in response, it's a business I'm running here, doncha know, not a campaign.
If I, as a long-time subscriber, so dismiss the fortnightly Eye, then why should some braindead texting-walker pay it any mind, not that he has a mind to start with, just a pair of over-developed infothumbs, through which he interacts with Creation, in its digitised, pseudo-reality.
introduced by Tom Robbins, but I can't find any more of it. Instead, here's John Cooper Clarke on why he doesn't have a computer. It fits rather neatly with mr ishmael's diatribe.