Planet Word

by J. P. Davidson

  The BBC’s ‘Little Green Book’

  The BBC had arguably lost the battle to protect its listeners even before ‘The Little Green Book’ was issued. The bawdy banter of the barracks had influenced a generation of servicemen and a new wave of comedians – the likes of Peter Sellers, Spike Milligan and Kenneth Williams – began to write and perform on radio. The Goon Show’s Spike Milligan remarked that much of the show’s innuendo came from servicemen’s jokes, which were understood by most of the cast who had all served as enlisted soldiers and many of the audience, but not by the BBC managers, who were mostly ‘officer class’.

  The most infamous hotbed of double entendre was the 1960s Radio 2 series Round the Horne, in which Kenneth Williams and fellow performers served up a half hour of wordplay, sexual innuendo and nonsense verse every Sunday afternoon. One of the regular characters was an English folk singer, Rambling Syd Rumpo, played by Williams, whose suggestive songs were filled with nonsense words like ‘grossets’ and ‘grommets’ and ‘nadgers’ and ‘moolies’.

  In Hackney Wick there lives a lass

  whose grummets would I woggle

  Her ganderparts none can surpass

  her possett makes me boggle!’

  Music-hall entertainment died out with the success of television, but from the Carry On films to TV’s Morecambe and Wise and The Two Ronnies, the format of double entendre family entertainment continued through to the 1970s. The following extract from an episode of Are You Being Served?, the BBC department store sitcom, wouldn’t have felt out of place in a nineteenth-century musical hall.

  Mrs Slocombe: Before we go any further, Mr Rumbold, Miss Brahms and I would like to complain about the state of our drawers. They’re a positive disgrace.

  Mr Rumbold: Your what, Mrs Slocombe?

  Mrs Slocombe: Our drawers. They’re sticking. And it’s always the same in damp weather.

  Mr Rumbold: Really.

  Mrs Slocombe: Miss Brahms could hardly shift hers at all just now.

  Mr Lucas: No wonder she was late.

  Mrs Slocombe: They sent a man who put beeswax on them, but that made them worse.

  Mr Rumbold: I’m not surprised.

  Miss Brahms: I think they need sandpapering.

  There was a defining moment in TV comedy in the early 1980s when the Not the Nine O’Clock News team satirized a Two Ronnies sketch. Ronnie Barker and Ronnie Corbett’s trademark were their innuendo-laden songs.

  The twittering of the birds all day, the bumblebees at play.

  The twit! The twit! The twit! The twit! The twittering of the birds all day;

  The bum! The bum! The bum! The bum! The bumblebees at play …

  The Not the Nine O’Clock News sketch ‘The Two Ninnies’ sent up the whole double entendre genre by singing the intended word – or worse. It was knowingly clever in a very 80s way – what would now be called postmodern. It was basically calling the bluff of double entendre.

  I spend all day just crawling through the grass

  Thistles in me hair and bracken up me anus

  I’m thrilled to bits to see a pair of tits

  And I love to watch the sun go down

  Oh vagina oh vagina over Chinatown

  Nowadays, explicit sexual humour raises barely an eyebrow. As the comic writer and performer David Baddiel observes, ‘When, twenty years ago, Molly Sugden from Are You Being Served? would come on TV and say that it had been raining in the garden and her pussy was soaking wet, it was taken to mean “cat”, with a slight overtone of “vagina”. Today, it would mean “vagina”, with just a tiny undercurrent of “cat”.’ For the most part, the double entendre has been consigned to early-evening TV sitcoms and that great bastion of bawdy jokes, the pantomime. Stand-up, observational humour is the comedy of choice these days.

  And yet … living as we do in a society which now talks so openly and frankly about sex, it is odd that we still rather hanker after our double entendres. The BBC Radio 4 programme I’m Sorry I Haven’t a Clue has been on air since 1972. It’s delightfully daft, full of wordplay and puns and absolutely heaving with innuendo – most of it aimed at Samantha, the show’s fictional scorer. Of a builder, ‘She was pleased to see his tender won but was startled when it suddenly grew to twice its size.’

  From office humour to best men’s speeches, it seems we still like a bit of innuendo. Long may it continue.

  Politeness

  Innuendo is one way cultures regulate social behaviour. The language of politeness is another way.

  There’s an etiquette in grammar which anyone who’s learned a foreign language will probably have come across. Most of the Indo-European languages have two levels of grammatical politeness when addressing people. French has the less formal tu for children and friends and the formal vous for anyone else; Spanish has tu and Usted, German du and Sie, Russian tы and Вы. English used to have two levels – you and the formal thou. Thou, thee and thine have virtually disappeared from day-to-day speech, although they can still be heard in some northern dialects and in a religious setting.

  The Japanese language is famous for an extensive grammatical system which is used to express politeness and formality, depending on age, job and experience. There are three levels of politeness, all expressed through different verb endings and alternative expressions. These levels are colloquial, polite and honorific or keigo (literally respectful language). There are two types of keigo: the polite honorific used when addressing someone of higher social status, like the boss at work, teachers or elders, and the humble one when you refer to yourself or family. Forms of keigo are found in Korean, Chinese and other Asian languages.

  The three golden words of politeness in the English language are please, thank you and sorry and the English – the stereotypical English at least – are the world champions when it comes to using them. We are masters in the arts of supplication, gratitude and apology. ‘Sorry to bother you … Sorry, but can you help me please? Terribly sorry … Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.’

  The 1920s guide to proper and correct conduct

  Generations of children have been told to ‘mind your manners’ or ‘mind your Ps and Qs’. We presume the ‘Ps and Qs’ stand for ‘pleases and thank yous’, although I rather like the theory that the phrase comes from the days of the early printing presses, where mistakes were often made with the typesetting of the lower-case ps and qs. Anyway, the English are renowned for minding them. We’re also rather keen on the matter of table manners, queuing and the art of polite small talk. Discussing the weather is a speciality, as is the avoidance of the contentious subjects of politics, sex and religion.

  Other nations have politeness encoded deep into their language and traditions. Iranian/Persian culture has a rather mystifying code of etiquette called taarof, which basically means to pay respect to someone. It involves elaborate compliments and praises and requires that you treat your guests and friends better than your own family. Taarof is a verbal dance between the person who is offering and the one who is receiving, a volley of insistence and refusal until one of them agrees. Taarof governs all levels of daily life, formal and informal – in the market place, shops, restaurants, offices and when entertaining guests at home.

  Comedian Omid Djalili was born in London to Iranian parents. Over coffee in his favourite Persian restaurant, he explains how taarof works.

  ‘I know, for example, that the lovely Farad here, who owns this restaurant, if I was to come in here, there’d be a little dance where he would give me the best food, and I will say, “Thank you so much, can I have the bill?” And he will say, “My food’s not really worth you paying anything.” “Please,” I say. “No, please, I must pay.” He goes, “No, no, no, no, you are a huge person in our community.” And I say, “I will, I must pay,” and he’ll go, “But really, you mustn’t pay.” And I say, “I really, really must pay.” And he’ll go, “I’ll get the bill then.” So he has every intention of charging me, I have every intention of paying, and yet we have this
wonderful dance of giving eulogies.’

  The same code of politeness operates at home between the host and a guest. Let’s imagine your grandmother invites you to her house for dinner. You clear your plate, and she offers you seconds. You’re still hungry and you’d love another plateful but you refuse. You’ve just taarofed. The ritual continues, and your grandma offers a second time – you refuse – and then a third time. At this point you accept. It’s a laborious, often frustrating, ritual for, of course, you may not have wanted another plateful. You were actually being honest rather than taarofing. Some people get round this by asking the guest not to taarof (‘taarof nakonid’).

  Taarof only works when both sides understand the rules; problems occur when one side doesn’t play the game. Omid recalls how his parents were keen to share their taarofing culture when they arrived in England from Iran.

  ‘My parents often had English people around, and I’ll never forget a very sweet accountant who came to our house around four o’clock and was clearly not hungry. My parents said, “Please, you must have food.” And he said, “Oh, I’m not hungry at all.” They said, “No, you must eat,” and they bring kebabs, they bring rice, and the English person then felt, All right then, I’ll have a little bit, just not to appear racist. So he had a little bit to eat, and then my parents said, “Well, take some home,” and he did. And as soon as he left, they said, “What a greedy bastard. He took everything. Can you believe it? Doesn’t he eat?” ’

  In taroof – unlike some codes of courtesy in countries with caste systems or hierarchical class systems – everyone uses the same ceremony and language with each other, whether they happen to be a prince from the Peacock Throne or a van driver. The aim is to seem as humble as possible, and the language used to achieve this is wonderfully lavish – as Omid demonstrates when the restaurant owner refills his coffee cup.

  ‘I just said thank you very much to Farad,’ Omid explains. ‘Ghorbanet beram – which means “May my life be a sacrifice to you.” I don’t even know him, but I want to sacrifice my life for him! But it’s also about humility: like we say Ghadamet ro Cheshm – literally, “May you walk on my eyeballs.” It means I’m bowing, I want to get as low as I possibly can so you can walk over my brow. It’s a way of giving a compliment, you see.’

  This emotional, excessive language is not exactly British. E. M. Forster wrote an essay on the character of the English in which he described the reaction of an Indian friend at the end of a week’s holiday together. The friend was thoroughly miserable – all happiness, he despaired, had ended. Forster reminded him that they’d be meeting up in a month or two and told him to ‘Buck up’. When the two met again, Forster accused his friend of having reacted inappropriately. To this his friend cried, ‘What? Do you measure out emotions as if they were potatoes?’ Forster explained he was worried that if he poured out his emotions on small occasions, he would have nothing left for the big ones. Emotion, replied his friend, has nothing to do with appropriateness. He was being sincere, he felt deeply and he showed it.

  A waiter is clearing away the coffee cups now, and he and Omid are engaging in another round of compliments and counter-compliments. It seems that taarof is basically about people feeling good about themselves and at ease in the company of a stranger. It’s a way of eroding all the sharp edges and the difficulties of age and gender and education and wealth differences that are bound to arise in any society. But Omid points out that there’s a downside to this full-on politeness.

  ‘My wife, who’s British, said, “You know, it’s very nice, you use such lavish language, you’re always complimenting people, but I don’t know what’s true. You compliment too many people.” And you know Iranian culture can be very blunt at the same time; Iranians can’t stop themselves. I know if my aunty hasn’t seen me for a while, she goes, “Oh my God, you’re fat, you’ve put on so much weight, look at that, oh my God, what are you doing?” ’

  Perhaps the bluntness is part of the same ritual of establishing an equal footing. Omid isn’t convinced. ‘To be called a bald, fat fart to your face. That’s a bit difficult to take …’

  Jargon

  Anyone who has worked on a filmset will be familiar with the technical language surrounding the actual nuts and bolts of filming which, to an outsider, sounds like coded nonsense. Sparks, best boys, gaffers, greensmen, grips and dolly grips all have a specialized job to do; their tools are apple boxes, arcs, bazookas, whips and swan necks. Gobbledegook to most people, but all these words actually allow for a short-hand communication and a very precise use of language. Nearly all professional groups involved in specialized activities, whether they are doctors, lawyers, soldiers or sailors, have their own jargon or terminology.

  From film crew to boat crew (it’s interesting how film and TV have kept the naval terminology), ocean-racing yachtsman Matt Allen gives a crash course in sailing jargon and its quite bamboozling lexicon for ropes. For starters, a rope on board a yacht is never called simply a rope. Once it’s got a designated purpose it’s a line or, if it’s very thick, a cable. Lines which are attached to sails to control their shapes are called sheets. Stationary lines which support masts are called standing rigging; individually they’re shrouds or stays. Movable lines that control the sails are called running rigging. Lines that raise sails are called halyards, and those which bring them down are downhauls. The bit of rope used to hold the boom down is a kicker or a fall guy, and a topping lift holds the boom up. Clearly, shouting to someone to ‘Grab that rope!’ could be disastrous.

  Matt Allen explains: ‘You couldn’t operate on a yacht – cruising or racing – without that sort of terminology. Your crew need to know exactly what you mean, which piece of rope to pull or to let off, especially in the heat of the moment. That way they know exactly what you’re talking about and there’s no confusion.’

  We landlubbers try to simplify sailing terminology, to talk about the left side or right side of a boat instead of port and starboard, but it doesn’t work. What we mean by left and right is a position in relation to our bodies (most of us think about which hand we write with). Port and starboard are in relation to the boat itself, so port is the left side of the boat facing forwards and starboard the right side. In fact the word port is a good example of how jargon itself changes if it’s not clear enough. Sailors used to talk of starboard and larboard. There must have been frequent misheard shouts in a strong wind, because sailors replaced larboard with port, as they moored ships on that side at ports.

  Nautical terms have permeated our everyday language. Some of the expressions are to do with the technical side of sailing – ship shape, know the ropes, keel over, be on an even keel, sail close to the wind, take the wind out of someone’s sails, make heavy weather, try a different tack, give someone leeway, make headway, give someone a wide berth, trail in someone’s wake.

  Other naval phrases are hidden and need some unpicking. To feel groggy comes from grog, the sailor’s daily ration of watered-down rum. If you’ve drunk too much and you’re three sheets to the wind, then you’re in the same condition as a ship whose lines holding the sails in place are loose – you shudder and roll. Down the hatch is another drinking term which comes from the cargo being lowered through the hatch into the ship’s hold. Pipe down, meaning to be quiet, was the signal at the end of the day for lights out on board. The phrase no room to swing a cat is thought to refer to naval floggings using a cat (cat o’nine tails) in the cramped spaces of the old sail ships. Someone in low spirits, who’s in the doldrums, is experiencing what sailors called the windless, becalming area near the equator. And when the barefooted sailors were called on deck for inspection, they had to line up in neat rows along the seams of the wooden planks and toe the line.

  The problem with jargon is when it leaves the confines of a particular profession or expertise and is used to communicate with the wider world. That’s when the definition of jargon changes.

  Chaucer used the word to mean the twittering or chattering of bi
rds, and that’s exactly how specialized language of the expert sounds to the punter – a meaningless twitter.

  Medical and Legal Jargon

  Doctors need to be able to communicate quickly and effectively with other medical professionals. But unlike sailors on a boat or a sparks in a film crew, they have to talk to people outside their specialized group – their patients. It may be a bilateral probital haematoma to them; to us, it’s a black eye. Myocardial infarction? That’s a heart attack.

  Most medical terminology derives from Latin or Greek, so unless you’ve studied the Classics, jargon ‘clues’ like cardio for heart, haema for blood, tachy for fast, hypo for low and hyper for high are meaningless.

  In our more patient-centred world, doctors have got much better at dropping the medical jargon and speaking to patients in a language they can understand. They’re learning to be more bilingual, shifting from seborrhoeic dermatitis to a touch of dandruff.

  Many of the complicated medical terms have been replaced by another form of jargon – the medical acronym. It’s clearer and quicker to use abbreviations for long-worded conditions. DVT is much simpler than deep vein thrombosis or URI for upper respiratory infection; sometimes an abbreviation is used to avoid upset, as in DNR for ‘do not resuscitate’. The acronym is also used as a secret code between doctors to talk candidly about the patient, although legislation allowing patients access to their own medical notes may curtail the practice. These acronyms, however, show no evidence of a cramping of style.