They don't really mean it

No contest

Arguably the finest footballer ever. Arguably the best deal going. Arguably the fastest car in the world.

They don’t really mean that, do they? You just know, from the way they say it, they mean unarguably. Arguable means you can argue about it. The claim is up for discussion or debate. But they don’t mean ‘debatably the best footballer,’ or ‘debatably the finest artist’, or anything approaching that. They think the word arguable means ‘you can try arguing, but you won’t win.’ That’s why they mean ‘unarguable.’ There’s no argument about it.

What?

They say ‘begs the question’ when they mean ‘raises the question’. If you beg the question, you take, as part of an argument, an assumption which is unproven. You make a kind of circular argument. ‘Parallel lines don’t meet because they are parallel’ begs the question of parallel.

‘People died from lack of medical care’ doesn’t beg a question. But it might well raise the question ‘why were the medical services so unprepared?’

Broken English

The advertising industry – my own alma mater – is responsible for a great deal of damage to English. It’s a result of hiring creative teams who are almost, but not quite, clever. 
I am currently often exhorted to buy some brand of car and, in consequence, ‘break the mould’. That I cannot for the life of me remember what brand they wish me to buy is a clear and simple indication of just how useless their creative efforts are.
But they don’t mean ‘break the mould’. They mean ‘break ranks,’ be different, break with habit or tradition. They could suggest I ‘break step’, or ‘step to a different drummer’ maybe. They could suggest I dare to be different. But they don’t actually mean me to break the mould.
To break the mould means to ensure that something is unique, that something cannot be repeated or replicated. ‘When they made him, they broke the mould,’ means he’s a one-off. The phrase comes from the business of sculpture. When a bronze sculpture was cast, the artist would – indeed, still does - ensure the foundry destroyed the mould. That preserved the uniqueness and value of the sculptor’s work.
If they ask me to buy their blasted car, and break the mould, they’d want me to be the last person to buy their car.

Given the sorry degree of literacy applied to their costly campaign, I probably would be.

… and why didn’t we see this coming?

‘A dramatic downturn was forecasted as long as six months ago.’

No it wasn’t. It was forecast. The past tense of to forecast is forecast. When was the last time you heard a BBC announcer tell you that a programme was first broadcasted last week?

Arguable. Begs the question. Breaks the mould. Forecasted. None of these are signs of evolving language. They’re in-your-face indicators of our accelerating fall from literacy.

And it was the schools who stood back while the media pushed us.

Back to Front

Nobody can object to the evolution of language. You might not enjoy it while it’s happening, but there can’t be many of us who would prefer today to be talking in Shakespearean English. Or even Victorian English. Change in the words we use, and the way we use them, is a natural, inevitable process, which keeps our language alive. It’s the process that didn’t happen to Latin, or Ancient Greek. And look what happened to them. Etruscan, indeed, failed so completely to evolve, that it’s not simply a dead language – we don’t have any idea what it was. Not just dead, but completely lost.

But while we ought allow our language to change, we owe it to our language to protect it from distortion or corruption or pointless change. I mean English, of course. Not just because that’s the language I’m using here, but because it’s one of the most used languages in the world. No doubt Spanish speakers and Chinese speakers feel the same concerns about their own language.

Distortion and corruption? You know what I mean. Xmas for Christmas. Tonite for tonight. And let’s not go anywhere near the text-message English mess. Pointless change is change of the worst kind. Because it brings no benefit. It adds no value, as they say, to communication. It just changes it. And change for the sake of change is never a good thing.

What happened?

We were talking about a script. Somebody referred to the lead character’s back story. What is his back story, I asked. Well, they said, he’s probably had a tough childhood. Drunk dad, y’know, uncoping mom. Joined the marines, got dishonourably…

No, I said. I mean, what do you mean by back story? Papers are put down. Glasses are pushed up. People sit back, and look at each other, then me. Roger, we mean, what is the character’s background? What are the events leading up to the point where the script opens? Why does he have this deep drive to solve multiple murders, but take out his own angst on Chinese prostitutes?

You mean, what is his background? What is his history?

Yeah! That’s his back story. Roger.

Back story. Think about it. All stories are back stories. They have to be. Even those told in the present tense. Because they have to exist before they can be told. Back story is just a made-up phrase, fabricated to impart some special industry-code importance to a necessity of scripting.

Yes, I know that back story can mean some quite complex plot elements that have to be communicated through some kind of retrospective implication, or by references, rather than real action. But that doesn’t change anything. It’s background. It’s history. What’s so wrong with using those words – which everyone understands?

Back, a popular front

But back is becoming a popular front. How often do you hear, usually someone in the music industry, referring to a back-catalogue? What is a back catalogue? Is it different to a catalogue?

Why do they talk about ‘the entire Beatles back-catalogue’? (Indeed, why?). What is the difference between the Beatles back-catalogue, and the Beatles catalogue? Apart from their latest album (which is itself a historical work, a day after they released it), all their work is historical. Maybe, if a band is on tour, the newest music in their concerts could be described as current, rather than back. But that’s a small and hardly meaningful distinction.

Dead composers have canons of work. We don’t talk about Haydn’s back-catalogue (unless, perhaps, you listen to Classic FM). The word back, in front of catalogue, adds nothing to communication, except an extra pointless word, and an extra wasted breath out of the lives of the speaker and the listener.

You can’t have it

At the builders’ merchants, they are out of stock of 1 ½” non-return valves. ‘Sorry, mate. They’re on back-order.’

What? Do you mean you’re out of stock, and you’ve ordered some more? What’s the difference between something being ordered, and something being back-ordered? Do they mean it was ordered some time ago, and still hasn’t arrived? That’s what ordered means. Do they mean they’re awaiting delivery? That’s what ordered means. Does ‘back’ mean they’ve reversed time, travelled into the past, ordered the items, then come back to the present (which would have been the future, then)? If they’ve back-ordered the goods, can I, in turn, back-order some for myself. ‘Oh, OK. In that case I’d like to back order two, please, name of Carey.’

What would happen if we called and said we’d like to back-order a taxi. Or back-order a pizza for delivery?

The most wretched aspect of the use of these pointless words is this: even the users don’t know why they say them, or what they mean. Not one of them can explain the difference between the meaning of the word with back in front of it, and the same word without back in front of it.

So why do they do it? One can only conclude that they want to add some pompous importance to the concept of story, or catalogue, or order. Some made-up value that makes it more special than the ordinary simple version we all understand. Because simple isn’t good. The practice comes from the thinking that calls dustmen refuse disposal operatives, or window cleaners vision management technicians.

Come on, guys. Words that mean nothing take precious time out of our lives. They complicate communications. They betray your own misgivings about the importance of what you do.

There’s a simple solution. Only ever put back in front of a word you can put front in front of. Don’t ever put back in front of a word that describes a past action or condition. The word you’re fronting-up already does the job fine, without your misguided embellishment. There’s always – and I mean, always – a word which already describes what you’re on about, and which does it much better than you can, by adding pointless extra words.

And now, I’ll go and discuss some smart-alec objections from my wife, who’s just mentioned bacchanalia, baccalaureate and backgammon.

Bored?

When did we stop being bored with things, and start being bored of them?

I’m getting fed-up of people who say that, and am beginning to get angry of them. I shan’t be putting up of it for much longer, I can tell you.