Wordwatching

by Alex Horne

  57 ‘Extrovert’ – a fairly easy one, I’d say.

  30

  About a thousand days after Carol had inadvertently alerted me to my tkday, I sat with a cup of tea at a quarter to four and hummed along to Countdown’s catchy theme tune as instinctively as a nightingale. When the show started and Des had rattled off his introductions, there I was, in the Champion’s chair, ready to fend off Marilyn, my first challenger. And there I was, failing to get a point on the board in the opening rounds before clawing back some dignity in the numbers game. Then there I was, declaring a four-letter word in the sixth letters game;

  Des: ‘Right, what’s your four, Alex?’

  Alex: ‘I’ve got “honk”, meaning money.’

  Des: ‘Honk!’

  There it was. On Countdown. For real. It had eluded the editor’s knife. To my enormous relief, just before Marilyn’s ‘horn’ I absolutely definitely audibly declared my four-letter word as ‘honk, meaning money’. There could be no doubt about the words. The Countdown contestant (me) quite clearly said that ‘honk’ meant money and Dictionary Corner didn’t disagree. They even showed the shot of Carol displaying ‘honk’ on her letters board.

  I’d always hoped that an appearance on Countdown would grant me a slice of the legacy I craved. This was something to tell the grandchildren, the teapot proof that I’d done something good. With the setting of ‘honk’ in Countdown stone, however, I’d managed to go one step further. My word was now embedded in the history of the programme too. In round seven of the nineteenth episode of the fifty-ninth series Alex Horne had declared ‘honk’, earning him four points alongside the four given to Marilyn for ‘horn’. ‘Honk’ was accepted by the Dictionary Corner.

  After defeating me, Tom found the word ‘paddle’ in an early letters round of his subsequent game. Carol stuck PADDLE on the board too but nobody mentioned that it meant ‘hand’. A tiny part of me wished I’d survived just one more game. That could have been my chance to dig out an incredible two seeds on the programme. But I was happy with my lot. I’m not greedy. No, I’m definitely not greedy. Despite what you may have read in The Fix magazine.

  Even though she’d stopped collecting them when we’d left home years before, I gave the Countdown teapot to my mum. It really is a remarkable piece of pottery: shaped like the famous Countdown clock (well, any clock really), bright blue, with the word ‘Countdown’ in the Countdown font underneath, it’s as garish as the programme’s original set. If archaeologists find them in millennia hence they’ll never guess their significance.

  ‘I can’t take it,’ said my mum.

  ‘You can,’ I countered.

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Well, look after it for me,’ I tried again.

  ‘Very well,’ she replied, seizing the teapot and placing it in pride of place in the middle of the main teapot shelf above the sink in the kitchen.

  A week later I sent her a book called Ella Minnow Pea by Mark Dunn to say thank you for all the words she’d passed on to me. She’s probably the only person I know who will appreciate the gift of a highly readable and entertaining lipogrammatical novel.

  *

  But I wasn’t quite finished yet. I was still determined to get my words in the dictionary proper and if nothing else, I had learnt over the last three dozen months that to break into the language, one usually has to do something out of the ordinary. So I threw my dice one last time.

  The British Library, the United Kingdom’s National Library, is a legal deposit library, which automatically receives copies of all books produced in the UK and the Republic of Ireland, as well as all foreign books distributed in the UK. That’s why it houses every Walsall Football Club matchday programme. It’s a scholarly zoo where one can wander amongst the world’s most weird and wonderful book-beasts (or, if you prefer, get a latte from the competitively priced café). It holds over 150 million items in all known languages and formats, some 20 million items more than the world’s ‘largest’ library, the American Library of Congress. As our proud representative of words, it is also, therefore, the home of all English dictionaries.

  On an innocent winter’s morning, I arrived at 96 Euston Road and marched through two imposing gates hewn from heavy sheet steel and cut into the shapes of letters spelling ‘British Library’ again and again and again. I was in the right place. Despite the chill, the courtyard was packed with readers, diligent souls, blissfully unaware of what was about to take place. They had no idea a lexical terrorist was strolling through their midst, armed to the teeth with home-made word-bombs.

  ‘Look confident,’ I whispered under my breath. ‘Must look confident.’

  Large signs on the glass doors of the main entrance warned ‘Bag Search in Operation’ but, thankfully, the guard waved me straight through. So far so good.

  ‘I’m here to look at the dictionaries,’ I told one of the two cardiganed receptionists.

  ‘Well, you’ll need a reader’s pass for that. Up the stairs, on your right’.

  This was unexpected news, but I hid my dismay and followed his pithy directions to another moccasined receptionist who asked to see photographic ID and ordered me to enter my details on a computer. The parameters of the operation were shifting. I couldn’t get away with ‘VG Farmer’ this time. They would have to know who I was. So I answered all the questions on the computerised form and ticked the box saying I understood the library rules, accepting that: ‘Damage to or theft of library material is a criminal offence and may result in prosecution’.

  ‘I’d like to see the dictionaries,’ I told my next goateed receptionist, the holder of the reader passes.

  ‘Well, you’ll need a reader’s pass for that.’

  ‘I know. That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘OK, let me see. Well, if you were a published author, you could get one right away lasting three years …’

  Ah ha!

  ‘I am a published author! I’ve written a book, it’s about birdwatching, it’s called – no, wait! I’ve also written an article about word histories. I have it here in fact.’ I reached into my bag. ‘There, Comments on Etymology, it’s an American publication, absolutely authoritative …’

  ‘That’s fine. I’ve found your birdwatching book here on Amazon. No problem. So if you can just pose for this camera …’

  One minute later, he handed me my pass. I was, officially, a reader. I held the key to the Chamber of Reference Books.

  Heart racing, I paced across the landing of the first floor, past vast banks of leathery books towards the Humanities section, where I proudly flashed my brand-new pass at yet more corduroyed receptionists.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ one said as loudly I’ve heard anyone speak in a library, ‘I’m afraid you can’t take that bag in here. If you go down two floors to the cloakroom you can leave it there and pick up a see-through plastic bag. You can bring pencils, paper and a computer in here, but nothing else I’m afraid.’

  I was afraid too, but was determined not to show it. Instead, I looked determined, tried to give a ‘silly me’ sort of smile, turned on my heel and regrouped in the basement.

  Could I really do this? They had my details, they had my photo and they now had my bag.

  But I could still bring in all I needed. I could do this. I would do this.

  Three minutes later, back up at the entrance to Humanities, I waved my pass once again and held up an official British Library plastic bag, through which they could quite clearly see some paper, a pencil and a computer. Nothing more. The receptionist waved me through, quietly this time. I took five more steps forwards and was in.

  Before me stretched countless graceful desks, each manned by more diligent souls, almost all of whom had enormous tomes splayed open besides tiny laptops that lit up their faces like candles. This was where past and future collided, where wireless broadband flashed over historical documents, and the silence of reading was gently fractured by the tapping of keys. This, I imagined, must be what the headquarters of the
OED looks like today.

  Still trying to remain as shadowy as possible I sidled along the shelves towards those devoted to linguistics. My heart switched sports, thumping rather than racing. So many books, so many words, so many dictionaries.

  Scanning the books, I slowed down as I reached layer upon layer of foreign-language dictionaries, several dictionaries of scientific biography and something called The Dent Dictionary of Measurement, which I felt sure Susie must have had a hand in. Nearly there; at least fifty Latin dictionaries, an abbreviations dictionary, the biography of the English language, a handful of encyclopaedias of language and linguistics, and an international bibliography of specialised dictionaries; must be soon.

  There. I’d found it: the Oxford English Dictionary, all twenty volumes, nestled alongside the three dusty books that housed Samuel Johnson’s.

  Other versions fell in line beneath it: Chambers, Penguin, Encarta, Webster’s and Barnhart, a reverse dictionary, a rhyming dictionary, a dictionary of new words, and a whole bookshelf of slang dictionaries. But I couldn’t take my eyes off the OED.

  A sign at the end of the aisle warned me that these books couldn’t be taken back to the desks. They were for reference only. But that was fine for me. They were, effectively, hidden away. They were unguarded.

  I reached up and took down volume XVIII, Thro–Unelucidated. It felt weighty but fragile in my hands, like someone else’s baby. Gently, I placed it on the floor, then, kneeling over it, flicked through to page 162.

  Head bowed, I slipped my other hand into the official British Library plastic bag on my right and withdrew one of several small pieces of paper. I glanced up briefly. No one was watching. I moved back to the dictionary and laid the slip on the left-hand page between ‘tjalk’ (a kind of ship) and ‘tlachtli’ (the ceremonial ball-game of the Aztecs) before easing the book shut.

  I had done it. The next time someone wanted to look up ‘tmesis’, ‘Tlpanec’, or even the word ‘to’, their eyes would be drawn to an extra entry:

  tkday (tíkedéi). One’s ten thousandth day on this planet. 2008 A.Horne Birdwatchingwatching On your tkday, however, you should be able to do anything. At that age you should know how to change a tyre, a fuse or a mortgage.

  Working speedily, I repeated the procedure with my eight other words, inserting more slips of paper defining bollo, demi, games, honest, honk, mental safari, paddles and pratdigger on their respective pages. When the last word was safely implanted, I slid that volume back on to the shelf and, before anybody had noticed I’d even been there, I was gone.

  To my surprise and relief, I didn’t feel any remorse on the Tube journey home, perhaps because I hadn’t, officially, done anything wrong. I hadn’t broken any of the Reading Room Requirements: ‘Collection items cannot be removed from any reading room. You can use laptops and take mobiles in but please turn off the sound before you enter a reading room. No coats, bags and umbrellas. No pens or highlighters. No sharp instruments. No food, drink, bottled water, sweets or gum. No cameras.’ No problem. There was no mention of made-up words.

  My main emotion was pride. Victoria Coren might not have been able to get a word in the dictionary despite her ‘direct line’ to the men in charge, but who says I had to deal with these men? They were middle men, and I could cut them out. So a week later I returned and stowed more slips into a couple of the other editions. A week later I did the same. From then on, every time I passed within a mile radius of the library I nipped in and tucked another word in another dictionary. Like Fantastic Mr Fox, I was focused, silently stealing into the home of words and carrying out my sneaky deeds.

  And I wasn’t content only to target London. I wanted my words to get into every dictionary in every library in the land. So now, whenever I travel around the country, I don’t stop to daub messages on service station toilet doors; instead I drop into my destination’s local library and drop my words into that local library’s lexicons.

  I sent the same slips of paper to my Rare Men and begged them to do the same. And I urge you to join us. I’ve included the words on the following page. Rip them out. With your teeth if necessary. Photocopy them a hundred times. Slice them up. Sprinkle them liberally into libraries. Bury them in bookshops. Or just place them in your own wordbooks at home. Everybody owns a dictionary. Plant our words in them.

  Go! Take them! There will be dice!

  Postscript

  January 25th 2011

  Chesham

  This is the second edition of Wordwatching. Some considerable time has passed since I first told my story so I’d like to take up a few more minutes of your time with a short update. I hope that’s ok with you. Because, since issuing those stirring commands, our words have indeed made further progress. As I’d hoped, honk’s appearance on Countdown was not the final chapter. Instead, they’ve all been inching ever closer to a firm and lasting place in the language.

  On the literal front, I’m pleased to report that many readers have taken me at my word, ripped the previous page from their copies and secreted them inside dictionaries in their local libraries. So now several hundred ‘demis’ and ‘pratdiggers’ are bedding down next to other, more established words, in locations as diverse as Luton and Leeds.

  Orally, their positions have been further strengthened by people like the comedian, Jon Richardson, who hosted a heated discussion about tkdays on his insightful and popular BBC 6 music show, while over at Kerrang! FM, former Big Brother contestant Kate Lawler held a phone-in on that same subject, causing a facebook furore as listeners frantically planned their own tkday parties.

  Indeed, this decimal celebration has made the most obvious splash in recent months. With tkday talk dominating both twitter and actual conversation on several occasions, the term was finally included in an online dictionary, the trusted www.wordspy.com, who cited both an article I’d written for the Independent which included the word, alongside an actual independent article from the Toronto Star. That’s right, my new word had hitched all the way to Canada, where a writer called Paola Loriggio explained; ‘The 10k Day celebration — alternately called “Tkday” or “decimal birthday” — has become the new coming-of-age for Generation Y.’

  More subtle words like ‘mental and safari’ and ‘honest’ have been making smaller but still discernible ripples. Watch the latest series of Masterchef, for instance, and you’ll hear food appositely described as honest on almost every episode. Google ‘mental safari’ and you’ll find everyone from politicians to mixed martial artists embracing the term in their blogs, essays and general witterings.

  Finally, my personal favourite, ‘honk’, has continued to create far-reaching waves, like my very own verbal moon. It has been spotted in the Guardian, the Observer and Scotland’s Sunday Post, it has popped up in Lonely Planet reviews, and it even made its way into the influential Thorpe Village Magazine. But perhaps the most gratifying usage of the word was by children’s author Paul Shipton in his latest book, Pigs in Planes: The Big Bear Nightmare. On page 52 of this porky romp, ruthless businessman Mr Sweetie shouts the following sentence at our hero, Captain Pete; ‘Nothing in the world can beat cold hard cash … dosh … readies … lots and lots of lovely honk,’ ensuring that lovely honk will live on not only in books and libraries, but in the minds of countless young readers, the true verbal gardeners of the future. On top of all that, it was simply an amazing feeling to see a word that I invented in someone else’s book. I had done it. I’d invented a word.

  A perfect opportunity to demonstrate this success came this Christmas, when I was invited to take part on Celebrity Mastermind on BBC1. This took me by surprise, as I was almost certain I wasn’t either of the things in the title. Nevertheless I agreed, and while I was settling into the iconic chair John Humphrys asked me why I liked my specialist subject, Ken Dodd, so much. ‘Well, I said’, holding my head up high. ‘His shows are always excellent value for honk’.

  If anything could match the appearance of a word on Countdown, it was surely this
. A decade older than its little brother, Mastermind is a serious half hour, resolutely packed with serious questions and earnest people. Honk is now etched on its esteemed walls, and yet another step has been taken towards the dictionary, thanks to me, the neologistic mastermind (I came second to a rugby player, by the way). I am still hoping to sidle into Countdown’s Dictionary Corner one day, but for now, I’m satisfied.

  The Wordwatcher’s Dictionary

  Balderdash: A man called Thomas Nashe (born in 1567, twenty-six years before a Thomas Nash with no ‘e’ on his surname who married Shakespeare’s granddaughter Elizabeth Barnard, the Bard’s last direct descendant) notched up a remarkable 705 citations in his brief life as a pamphleteer and writer of pornographic poetry. It was he who invented the word ‘balderdash’, my favourite board game, as well as ‘conundrum’, my favourite round on Countdown.

  Better Half: In 1596 my college (and Carol Vorderman’s) Sidney Sussex was founded and named after its foundress, Frances Sidney, Countess of Sussex and aunt of the poet Sir Philip Sidney who invented the word ‘miniature’ in his poem Arcadia. ‘Words can change the world,’ he argued before going on to coin ‘bugbear’, ‘hazardous’, ‘loneliness’, ‘dumbstricken’ and ‘my better half’, in the process of garnering 225 quotations in the OED.

  Big Bang: While the origins of the universe are still a source of debate, the term ‘Big Bang’ can be traced directly back to one man, the British astronomer Sir Fred Hoyle, who rather ironic ally opposed the idea he named. Originally thought up by a priest called Georges Lemaître, it was Hoyle’s rival George Gamow who advocated this theory of a suddenly expanding universe in direct competition with Hoyle’s own ‘steady state model’. Enormously popular thanks to his work on the BBC, Sir Fred attempted to dismiss Gamow’s hypothesis with what was supposed to be the pejorative term ‘Big Bang’. Being rather catchy as well as scientifically more viable, however, the notion caught on.