Language Dilution is a Crime

Language dilution, language pollution: pick your term. For too long this practice has gone on unchecked, unabated, laying waste to our precious words, our finest finite natural resource. It has many learned defenders who cry ‘language drift!’ arm-in-arm with the less learned who cry in turn, ‘who gives a shit!’. Fools.[i]

No, it is not language drift, it is laziness.

As well as the obvious meaning, Google gives a definition of ‘literally’ as a word that can be “used to acknowledge that something is not literally true but is used for emphasis or to express strong feeling.”[ii] I weep. Google, the arbiter of knowledge, has metaphorically caved in, figuratively given up the fight, and literally offended me.

But it isn't Mr. Google’s fault, nor is it the OED’s or any other organisation like that. Nope, it is your fault, dear reader, if you have ever used literally when you don’t literally mean it. Dictionaries do not set language, they document it: Fiona MacPherson of the OED says, “If enough people use a word in a particular way […] it will find its way into the dictionary.”

Using literally when you don’t literally mean literally is language abuse, not language drift. Wikipedia lists the reasons for language change as:

a)      Economy: Speakers tend to make their utterances as efficient and effective as possible to reach communicative goals. Purposeful speaking therefore involves a trade-off of costs and benefits.

a.       the principle of least effort: Speakers especially use economy in their articulation, which tends to result in phonetic reduction of speech forms (going to > gonna)

b)      Analogy: reducing word forms by likening different forms of the word to the root.

c)       Language contact: borrowing of words and constructions from foreign languages.

d)      Cultural environment: Groups of speakers will reflect new places, situations, and objects in their language, whether they encounter different people there or not.

e)      Migration/Movement: Speakers will change and create languages, such as pidgins and creoles

I am fine, for instance, with the way my generation uses the word ‘like’ all the time as a way of introducing reported speech because it is a shorter and more fluid way of saying ‘he/she said’ and makes it clear you are paraphrasing, or giving the gist of what somebody else said. ‘Like’ is also used as a filler word, and that’s fine too. In general, it’s best to try and remove fillers from your speech, because they make you sound less intelligent and confident, but that’s super-difficult so it’s fine, really. I am also fine with people saying ‘PIN number,’ even though technically speaking you are saying ‘personal identification number number’, because I feel PIN itself has come to mean the combination you put into the thing to validate your cashcard.  

I am not fine with people diluting ‘literally’ (and ‘genuinely’, to a lesser extent) because we only have one word for literally, and if literally no longer means literally then we've lost a word, and a useful one at that. If there was a replacement – and I know a lot of former literally-abusers that have moved onto ‘genuinely’, ruining that, too – I possibly would be okay with it. It falls into none of the above categories, and in fact reduces economy. If you use literally when you don’t mean literally, for instance in, ‘omg I literally love Mary Berry,’ you are not only adding an extraneous word, you are also devaluing it, so when the time comes for ‘literally’ to be used in its proper meaning it is no longer up to the task. (I've seen the tragicomedy of ‘literally literally’ before. Again, I weep.) It also raises the issue for serial literally and genuinely abusers that if they make a statement without using one of the two, it could give the impression that they are being insincere.

Parroting a word over and over again in inappropriate contexts robs a word of its power. Take swearing for instance. People that eff and blind as part of their regular speech patterns devalue swearing, so when they’re really angry, they haven’t got the vocabulary to express themselves. When/if I’m a parent, I imagine I would tell my children not to swear unnecessarily, but if they’re really, really angry about something it would be okay. It’s important that we can be rude to each other. It seems strange to me, for instance, that in Australia (and other parts of the world, too), people call each other ‘cunt’ in the same way that I would use the word ‘mate.’ If you really want to call someone a ‘cunt,’ which is just about the worst word we have, what do you do?

So please, put some thought into the words you use because words are vulnerable and synonyms are exhaustible.

---

[i] http://www.buzzfeed.com/billypeltzer/10-crutch-words-you-literally-need-to-stop-saying-ecuv This ‘listicle’ is mostly on the money, and the comments illustrate typical moronic defences perfectly.

[ii] In between starting and finishing this article, Google has CHANGED IT BACK!! Yes!

By Bus

A bead of sweat slowly tumbled down the nape of Mark’s neck, testing his patience. An unexpected Indian summer was inflicting a punishing dry heat on Northern Europe, and waiting at the Southampton Airport Parkway bus stop for an interminable length of time, Mark felt like an ant under a magnifying glass. He forced himself to remain calm as the bead avalanched interminably and excruciatingly past his collar-line. The only other person at the bus stop was a small and frail old lady, leaning on a walking stick with a rucksack hanging off her narrow shoulders. She seemed completely unaffected by the heat. Mark wasn’t sure whether to marvel at her casual stoicism or to feel embarrassed by his relative inability to endure.

Before he could reach a satisfactory conclusion to this problem, the Uni-Link bus arrived and pulled up in front of the pair and the sliding doors huffed open. The elderly lady boarded ahead of Mark, and once he had wrestled his over-stuffed suitcase on-board and bought a single ticket, he found her peering up the stairwell towards the top deck, as if trying to gauge whether the climb was beyond her. The bus lurched into motion and she turned to look at Mark.

                ‘Well, are you going to help me or what!’ she said expectantly, but with a hint of cheekiness that prevented her tone from sliding into impertinence. Mark grunted in assent and heaved his suitcase into the rack, before turning and offering a forearm to the lady, which she grasped lightly. ‘Thank you, my dear. I want to sit at the front. It’s more fun at the front.’ An increasingly bemused Mark guided her up the swaying steps to the front seats of the bus, which afforded a grand panoramic view of the Southampton streets that rushed by on either side. Mark helped her out of her rucksack and she sat down. She seemed pleased, and Mark, unsure as to whether his duties were fulfilled, turned to go.

                ‘So gentlemanly for one so young, thank you my dear.’ She indicated for Mark to sit alongside her. ‘My name is Nancy, but my friends call me Nancy. And how may I address you?’ Mark laughed.

                ‘Mark. My friends call me…Mark.’

                ‘And are you student here, Mark?’

                ‘I am. In fact –’ he said, as the bus rounded the final corner of Wessex Lane, bringing Montefiore Halls into view on the right, ‘– my old room is that one.’ He pointed towards a long but narrow block of flats with a fading, weather-worn façade. ‘Are you?’ Nancy smirked in response. The bus stopped outside Montefiore and a group of Chinese students boarded.

                ‘I was. Of course, this concrete monstrosity that you had the misfortune of calling home did not exist back then. I was a resident of Stoneham House, built in an age where architecture wasn’t dictated by the latest in prison building trends!’ Stoneham House lay across the road from Montefiore, situated with some degree of grandeur in the middle of a few acres of well-cultivated garden. The late-baroque façade was compromised somewhat by the awkward, abandoned overflow accommodation tower that loomed incongruently on the west wing, like a builder that had somehow stumbled into a high-society dinner party.

A group of Chinese pre-sessional students boarded and the bus pulled away. Nancy requested for Mark to open the window for her and he did so. There was a lull in conversation as Nancy tilted her head back and allowed the cooling draft to blow through her hair as the bus barrelled along Burgess Road up towards the university. Noticing the Karrimat strapped to her rucksack, Mark broke the silence.

                ‘What’s with the mat? Are you roughing it?’

                ‘I’m going to Bestival.’

                ‘Bestival?’ Mark repeated incredulously.

                ‘Bestival’.

                ‘You’re kidding me.’

‘I most certainly am not.’ Mark burst out laughing: he couldn’t help himself. Nancy looked peeved. After he had composed himself, Mark continued.

‘Why on earth are you going to Bestival? I don’t think I’m being rude when I say you’re not exactly the typical festival-goer.’

‘Well, perhaps not. I’m going to see Elton John. He’s not playing anywhere else in the UK this year, so this year I’m going to Bestival. We fell in love with him in 1970, Doreen and I, when he released ‘Your Song’ in 1970. You might know it from that film with that handsome Scottish chap. Anyway, we’ve been to see him every year since.’

‘So you’re something of a megafan?’

‘I’m not a lunatic, if that’s what you mean,’ came the defensive reply.

Embarrassed, Mark resumed looking onto the outside world. They were passing through the university campus, all but abandoned in the summer months by the student population. Small groups of parents of prospective students were being shown around campus by enthusiastic student ambassadors wearing brightly coloured t-shirts, while their offspring lagged behind, eyeing each other up. The driver of an oncoming bus threw up a salute as he passed. A crowd of ravens hopped and bickered on what the student population had dubbed the “intercourse” – the strip of grass that separated the bus interchange and the concourse. Nancy drew his attention back into the confines of the bus.

‘You haven’t told me your destination yet.’

                ‘I’m off to the Island, same as you. My eldest sister squeezed out a baby girl two days ago so I’m rushing home for the celebration. Baby Caroline – I’ve only seen heavily pixelated photos so far. I can’t wait to see her. I usually find babies annoying but when it’s a new family member I might be more tolerant.’

                ‘You will adore her, no doubt about it. Your sister and her husband, however, will be driven crazy eventually. There’s a much longer grace period when it’s your own baby. It’s a race to stay sane until they become toddlers, which is when they become lovely again, and develop a personality.’

                ‘I’ll make sure to tell Kate that’ said Mark facetiously. ‘Do you have children of your own, then?’

                ‘No, but I saw enough of Doreen’s to know a bit about them. They were terrors until they were three and a half. Terrors, but she loved them anyway, of course. I helped out when they got a bit much. They turned into little angels almost overnight.’

                ‘Doreen’s your best friend, right?’ Mark ventured.

                ‘Yes. My best and oldest friend. Would you like to see a picture of her?’ Without waiting for a response, Nancy opened her purse and took out a dog-eared and crumpled black-and-white photo. A jaded-looking, post-concert Elton John smiled wearily into the lens of the past, his evident exhaustion contrasting with the exuberant smiles of the two women flanking him. ‘I’m the short, fat one on the right, if you can’t tell. Doreen was always the looker of the two of us. We were devastated when we found out Elton hadn’t much interest in girls! It was taken after a performance at the Royal Albert. Fantastic, he was, and with just a piano, a microphone and a spotlight.’ She broke off to hum a few bars of ‘Your Song’, without very much skill.

‘And you’re meeting her on the Island?’ At this, Nancy shook her head slightly and looked deeply into Mark’s eyes for a moment then back to the photo, but didn’t say anything. The cogs in Mark’s brain clunked. Suddenly it was obvious. ‘Oh! I’m so sorry, I should have realised’. Mark instinctively looked down and fiddled with a button on his coat, uncomfortable with this unexpected revelation and unsure how to act. He reached out and gave Nancy’s fragile hand a squeeze and waited patiently for her to gather herself. She sighed and made a visible effort to shake off her grief by squaring her shoulders, scrunching up her eyes a few times and swallowing to ease out the lump in her throat.

‘She passed two weeks ago, but we already had our tickets by that point, so I decided to come anyway by myself. I think it’s what she would’ve wanted. I’ve got this -’ she waggled the photo, ‘and this!’ she said, pulling out a hip flask. ‘Limoncello!’ she said gleefully. The bus was going past the Common; a trickle of sweaty-shiny joggers flickered in and out of the long shadows cast by the trees lining the footpath. ‘It keeps me young.’ Nancy flipped open the cap and took a slug of the potent yellow ooze, and held the flask out to Mark, who declined.

                ‘No thanks, can’t stand the stuff.’

                ‘You don’t drink? You should, you know, it’s good for the soul.’ Mark laughed.

                ‘Nancy, I’m a student. If my lecture notes were etched into the bottom of a pint glass, I would be getting full marks. I spent practically all summer half-cut, if not fully-cut, on Hampstead Heath. But Limoncello is a vile liquid.’

                ‘You live in London, then?’

                ‘Nope, Southampton, but this summer I was living with my boyfriend in London.’ Nancy hooted.

                ‘I didn’t have you down as a “follower of Elton”! You don’t dress nearly well enough.’

                ‘Cheers,’ replied Mark drily over Nancy’s merry giggles. ‘A “follower of Elton” is your euphemism for homosexual, I suppose?’ he chuckled at Nancy’s strange phrase. ‘I’ve heard worse, I’ve got to admit’. Nancy took another swig from her flask in an attempt to calm herself.

                ‘So, Mark, other than drinking in a park, what else did you do this summer?’ Nancy asked pointedly. Mark grinned wickedly and met her gaze.

                ‘Oh not much, just…bumming around’. Nancy erupted into a fit of laughter again, and Mark joined in, too. ‘Some people would feel sick if I made a joke like that around them.’

                ‘My dear, I too am a follower of Elton, just not quite in the same way. I have done my best to live a prejudice free life. Homophobia is for the feeble-minded.’ Mark mimed raising a glass.

                ‘I’ll drink to that.’

The U1A approached the Red Funnel ferry terminal, and the pair settled into a steady rhythm, both enjoying the unexpected camaraderie that had developed between them over the course of the bus journey through the heart of Southampton. Once on the Isle of Wight, the two went their separate ways: Mark to celebrate the birth of his niece, and Nancy to say farewell to Doreen in a moment of introspection unnoticed by the 20’000-strong crowd surrounding her that were caught up in Elton John’s masterful balladry, as she had been years before.

Castles Round Two: India

My most viewed post of all time is a post from 2010 about castles. It has 1445 hits as of writing. I put it's success down to niche appeal and lots of pictures. It turns out, I completely dropped the ball on that one.

I am a subscriber to /r/castles, a subreddit kept alive almost single-handedly by this one guy called Hoohill, who posts a new castle every day. How this guy has such an inexhaustible knowledge of castles, I'll never know (Google, probably), but he posts a lot of Indian castles.

These things are absolutely enormous.

They make European and Middle-Eastern castles look like doll's houses. I had absolutely no idea India was such a big player on the castle circuit. I didn't even know India was big on medieval warfare, either. For me, this is the sort of discovery that really highlights how skewed my Euro-centric view of the 1st and 2nd millenniums really is. Picture time, 100% from Mr. Hoohill/Reddit.

For starters: Khumbhalgarh (they all have funny names, don't they). It's walls are 38km long. Yeah bitch, thirty-eight! And the walls aren't just pathetic head-height token efforts, they're massive. LOOK.

And there's more!

It was built in the 15th century, making it one of the younger castles featured in the post, but it is second only to the Great Wall of China in terms of continuous length in the whole world. I'm feeling inadequate already.

"Do you think they're compensating for something, Donkey?"

Khumbhalgarh's older and bigger brother is Chittorgarh (the '-garh' suffix is the noise you make when you plummet from the top of the walls). The walls aren't as long but it covers a greater area, making it the biggest in India, and who knows, probably the world, too. Somehow it was successfully sacked three times. How? It would surely be harder to breach than a Banks, Maldini, Moore, Vidic, Lahm backline. I can't find any pictures that get the whole thing in, so here is the Google Maps URL

A tiny portion of the walls

Another view of Chittorgarh

Aight, then there's this one:

It's called Agra, which I'd say is a pretty decent name for a castle. It's all red and stuff, and has three massive walls stacked on top of each other, just in case, y'know, the invaders are all adept pole-vaulters or something.

Been to the top of the tower? The guidebook says it's a must-see.

The gems held within

For no other reason than it also sounds vaguely like the previous one, this is next one is Kangra Fortress. It looks pretty European-y to my eyes, but what do I know. It must be doubly hard to capture because it would surely be all but impossible to resist the urge to gawp at the amazing landscape below. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but Rohit, have you seen the view?

It's like a fucking fairytale or something

Stop it, India. Just stop it. You're ruining it for the other kids.

While we're on the subject of ridiculously pretty castles, try Amer castle on for size. Get an eyeful o' this:

Mad jel

But don't worry, it doesn't look as good from every angle. PSYCHE! Yes it does.

Let's go out and look at some of the old medieval buildings and
that, because I bet they look even better at night, all lit up

This is Mudgal castle:

According to Hoohill, it is 'a gigantic, long-forgotten fortress.' How do you just forget about a fortress like that? A castle that would be the gem in practically any other nation's castle portfolio is just another standard castle in India. Those spoilt gits. The gates:

Back when Hadrian's Wall was considered an impressive feat of engineering in (modern day) England, India was building stuff like Rajgad Fortress.

A "lower gate" apparently. Doesn't look too low to me

They build a fortress on that thing when England was nothing and the Romans were at their peak

In a similar vein is Lohagad Fortress, which is all run down and overgrown and beautiful. Like Rajgad, it's well over 2000 years old.

It's also pretty high up.

I bet this spur really irritated the civil engineers - "We have to wall the whole thing?!"

I'm not even close to running out of massive/beautiful Indian fortresses, but that's more than enough to get you started. I should probably have dropped this link at the start of the post, but here is my resource: r/castles filtered for India. Nearly all by Hoohill - what a legend.

One last one - Gwalior - 'one of history's greatest fortresses'. The place where zero was used for the first time (say whaaaaaa!). Tough and beautiful. Just like a Banks, Maldini, Moore, Vidic, Lahm backline.

A real hero, and a real human being